by Karen Swan
Alex shut the door as he walked slowly towards the elevator, reaching for her phone and calling the only number that ever rang her on it.
‘Louise?’ she asked, walking back to the windows and looking down again at the metal shavings still shifting and twitching their ways to magnetic north. ‘No, it’s fine, we were winding up anyway.’
She stepped out of her shoes, feeling a wince of pleasure-pain as her feet spread and she dropped down three inches.
‘Oh, you could say that,’ she sighed. ‘I just gave him what he thought he wanted and saved his marriage. Ring his PA and get in a follow-up for within the fortnight.’
A sudden flash past the window made her startle and step back. It was another moment before her eyes tracked what she had seen and she realized it was a peregrine falcon, one of the huge number that were making their home in the city, roosting on the multitudinous ledges of the city buildings, soaring on the thermals provided by the concrete rooftops and hunting the pigeons that flapped merrily up and down the avenues. She watched as it glided effortlessly on an updraught. ‘Anyway, what’s up?’
She pressed a hand to the glass and looked down as it suddenly swooped into a dive, making for a hapless, oblivious pigeon several storeys below. Its speed was dizzying – someone had told her they could reach up to 200 mph in a stoop – and helped by the skyscrapers acting like mountains, funnelling the air. These falcons now lived in greater numbers in Manhattan than anywhere else in the world, and they were thriving far better than their counterparts in the wild. She gasped, thrilled, as the falcon made the kill; the pigeon didn’t even know what had hit it. It had been outclassed by a predator that had every advantage: not just height, or speed, but adaptability. These peregrines were the living embodiment of everything she preached to her clients.
Wait . . . It was another moment before the words in her ear caught up with the vision before her eyes. She turned away from the window and stared, unseeing, back into the empty room. ‘Say that again . . . he wants me to do what?’
Edinburgh, two days later
Sleet patted at the windowpanes like a kitten trying to get in from the cold and the room was draughty, sending the fire into leaping kicks as occasional gusts worried the flames. But Alex, sitting in the orange velvet wing chair, felt warm. She had been warm for two days now, ever since she had put the phone down to Louise in New York, the promise of this deal sitting like a hot coal in the very heart of her.
Sholto Farquhar looked back at her with a slow, unhurried blink. He wasn’t a man who ever needed to rush. ‘So there you have it, Ms Hyde. Our cards are on the table.’ He brought his fingers to a steeple before his lips, his cheeks ruddy-flushed. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, I agree you need my help,’ she replied, mirroring him at an equally relaxed pace. ‘From everything you’ve just told me, I think it’s remarkable you’ve managed to get to this point without further damage to the company. You should congratulate yourself on containing the problem thus far.’
Sholto rose from his chair and walked across the tartan-carpeted room to a round rosewood table, upon which sat a decanter and a pair of cut-crystal tumblers. She watched as he poured them each a finger of whisky.
‘Ice?’
She shook her head.
Nodding approvingly, he walked back with the drinks. ‘Our thirty-year reserve,’ he said, handing her one with appraising eyes.
‘My favourite.’
He settled himself in the plum velvet chair opposite hers. ‘You know, you are very young to have such a formidable reputation.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you.’
‘I had a devil of a time getting your number. I had heard of you long before I could get hold of you.’
‘Well, I prefer not to make myself available to cold-callers. I only take on a handful of clients each year. I prefer to work closely with just a select few. I find that those who need me have the means to find me.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Getting past your PA was no mean feat either. I’ve had warmer phone calls with the Russian embassy.’
Alex chuckled. ‘I couldn’t do without her.’
‘Well, I’m grateful to you for agreeing to meet with me, particularly on a Sunday. I’m sure your weekends are precious.’
‘I’m available to my clients at any time.’
Sholto raised an eyebrow – seemingly pleased by this – and his glass. ‘Sláinte. Your good health.’
‘Sláinte.’
He watched as she sipped the amber liquid, but she didn’t betray the heat in her throat as she swallowed it down. After a moment, to her mild surprise, she found she rather liked it.
‘No one’s sorrier than I that it should have come to this, but he’s a loose cannon,’ Sholto said, getting back to business.
‘It certainly seems so. The affairs are ill advised, at the very best – he’s laying the company open to God only knows what in terms of sexual harassment charges. But to punch a board member in the face at the family assembly?’ she said, looking – and feeling – disgusted. ‘Throwing a computer terminal through a window . . . ?’ she tutted, shaking her head. ‘I’ve never heard of anything like it. He sounds temperamentally and physiologically unsuited to the role; he physically can’t handle it. In CEOs, what you want to find – if you could peer into their brains – would be high levels of testosterone, the “can do” hormone, but low levels of cortisol, the stress hormone. He is a classic high testosterone, high cortisol mix which is a disaster. When the pressure’s too much, he’s going to blow and that makes him a liability.’
Sholto sighed, looking regretful. ‘It’s not necessarily all his fault; I’m afraid his father was overly indulgent and you know what they say about sparing the rod.’
She tilted her head, expressing empathy. ‘Do you have children?’
‘Two boys. Torquil and Callum.’ He chuckled lightly. ‘I say “boys”. They’re both in their thirties and have stood six inches taller than me for the past fifteen years.’
‘And do they work for the company or are they just shareholders?’
‘They’re both company directors – Tor’s our CFO, and Callum heads up our wealth management division in Edinburgh.’
‘How do they find him?’
‘They were close as boys – Callum and Lochie particularly – but they tend to keep their distance from one another now. They’ve all changed and become very different people.’
Alex thought for a moment. ‘So how many family members are sitting on the board of directors? You, Lochlan . . .’
‘Torquil and Callum.’
‘Any non-family members?’ she asked.
‘Yes, four. Two external directors, one former employee and one current employee – our master blender. Why?’
‘I’m just interested in the make-up of your board. Family businesses with high proportionate representation are less likely to fail but this effect is cancelled out if family members have fifty per cent or more of the directorships. That’s because whilst family businesses can benefit from the closer emotional ties, sibling rivalry, identity and succession rivalries also mean conflicts blow up more easily – as seen at your family assembly.
‘Well, no one could argue it’s a close relationship, genetically speaking I mean. Lochie is my second cousin once removed, and he and my boys are third cousins so I don’t know whether that plays into your hypothesis or not.’
Alex considered for a moment. ‘It probably does. They’re sufficiently linked to be unable to escape each other, but not so closely that they truly care. Are there any women on the board?’
‘One. Mhairi MacLeod. She’s a senior partner at Brodies.’
Alex nodded. ‘Depending upon your Articles of Association, it might be worth looking at bringing in at least one more female director. There is strong evidence that boards with gender diversity are more stable with lower resignation rates and less conflict.’
‘Ms Hyde, I’m quite sure you’re right b
ut the only conflict at Kentallen emanates from one person: Lochlan Farquhar. Always operating just within the limits of corporate by-laws, he persistently and repeatedly obstructs both the will of the board and the family assembly.’ His expression darkened. ‘My company is responsible for employing three hundred and forty-one people from the town. Our distillery brings in over one million visitors to the area annually and we donate one per cent of our operating profits – which were sixty-five million pounds last year – to local charities. The board is not the only group who cannot afford for Kentallen to fail.’
‘Understood.’
‘He simply cannot be allowed to continue as he is – God knows, he’s gone downhill since his father’s death. It’s clear he’s in pain and we’ve all tried intervening in our various ways – talking to him, offering support, a shoulder. But he’s a renegade, hell bent on self-destruction, and I now fear he’s going to bring us all down with him, whether he intends it or not.’ He frowned. ‘His actions over the past few months have been tantamount to gross misconduct and he knows it.’
‘Indeed, you’ve been incredibly tolerant. If you were anything other than a family-owned and managed business, he’d have been out on his ear by now.’
He leaned forward in his chair, the whisky in his tumbler sloshing against the cut crystal. ‘I realize that what we’re asking is unorthodox, but I think, also, you can see the predicament we’re in. The usual routes of solving such a problem aren’t open to us and besides, we wouldn’t want family relations to break down further.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Can you do what we’re asking?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the timescale we discussed?’
‘That depends on how resistant he is going to be to working with me.’
‘Almost entirely opposed to it, would be my guess.’
‘Well, given that mindset and the scale of the task, weekly sessions and remote conferencing are out; I’ll have to go out there and work with him intensively.’ She met his gaze. ‘But yes, I believe I can get it done by Christmas.’
He smiled and held out his hand, one bushy grey eyebrow hitched up. ‘So then we have a deal?’
Alex looked at him, blinking slowly; she was never one to be hurried either. ‘Yes,’ she smiled, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. ‘We have a deal.’
Chapter Two
Thompson Falls, Montana, 23 January 1918
The snow lay in deep drifts in the early-morning light, puffed up like a marshmallow and as yet undotted by animal tracks. The land stretched out before her, perfectly still and silent as though to make a point of his absence – it had been twenty-one days now since he had left for Washington, and eighteen hours since they had night-trekked from there, the five and a half miles through the snow to the train. By now, he would be in New York.
New York; so far from here. Until last month, it had felt like a world away, foreign even, but within the fortnight his boots would tread in the blood-riven battlefields of Europe. Then he would know the difference.
She stood on the porch step, her woollen shawl offering scant protection around her shoulders as she watched a fox emerge from the bare, bony trees and trot belly deep in the powder, its russet coat like a stray flame in the snow.
She watched as he stopped – nose pointed, one paw poised in the air, like one of their old hunting dogs – detecting a noise or smell. A deer mouse? A kangaroo rat? A least chipmunk? If he was lucky, a white-tailed jack rabbit? He looked thin and in need of that meal. She held her own breath as he froze, waiting with him. Then he pounced suddenly, all four legs in the air, his body tucked under and his muzzle pointed downwards as he landed with a small ‘pouf’, face first and part buried.
A moment later he emerged, triumphant, the limp body of a meadow vole dangling from his jaws, and she watched as he trotted back into the trees again and disappeared out of sight.
He might be the only other living thing she would glimpse today, or this week, and she knew her gesture was futile – what point was there in hanging a blue star in a window that no one else would see? But it was all she had to symbolize her sacrifice: a star to honour him – her love – fighting someone else’s war.
She stared out at the walls of her world, sending prayers into the ether. She had to remain strong. She had to be brave and do that hardest of things: just wait.
Port Ellen, Islay, Wednesday 6 December 2017
The ferry docked with surprising grace, the rust-freckled hull of the 1950s vessel knocking politely against the giant tyre fenders of the jetty wall. Alex watched from behind the thick glass windows as ropes were thrown, men in calf-length yellow boots and waterproof boiler suits hauling and winding the unwieldy ropes around mighty bollards, tethering them in place and seemingly quietening the swell that had pestered them on the route over from the mainland.
She disembarked quickly, eager to feel still again. She had never been an able sailor and she knew without needing to check that her complexion would be green-tinted, even with her Chanel Les Beiges foundation on.
‘Miss Hyde?’
A stocky man with a bushy grey moustache stepped forward and took her overnight bag from her grasp. ‘Hamish Macpherson, from the distillery,’ he said, shaking her hand briskly. ‘Welcome to Islay. You’ve picked a fine day for it.’
Not sure whether he was serious, Alex resisted the urge to look up either at the torrid sky that was tussling only metres above her head, or back at the frothing heaving sea. ‘Hello. Thank you for coming to collect me.’
‘Aye. Well, it can be a wee bit tricky finding the turn-off unless you know where to look. Apparently, “Turn right past the rowan tree” has been too obscure for some guests in the past.’
She glanced across at him, still not sure whether he was being wry or grumpy. ‘Oh dear. I take it they found you eventually, though.’
‘Nope,’ Hamish shrugged. ‘They were never heard of again,’ he said ominously, but a very faint glint twinkled in his hazel eyes.
Alex laughed lightly, following after as he turned and led her back up the jetty; she kept pace with him easily, in spite of the difficulties of wearing heels on wet cobbles – Louise always joked she could run a marathon in Choos – but the wind blew hard at their backs, blowing her dark hair in front of her face, and she tugged the collar of her coat tighter to her neck. Orange fishing nets lay in heaps along the stone wall, lobster creels upended and empty beside them. Two fishing boats were docked alongside and a couple of men were slopping water from a bucket over the decks. Ahead, Port Ellen – the second-largest town on the island – stood on guard as though awaiting her inspection, a rack of large white terraced houses stretched out along a curved beach before her, each one handsome but spare with not a door wreath or window pot to be seen. Beyond, the land rose in gentle increments like a lumpen mattress.
They stopped at an ancient pale olive Land Rover that looked as though it had served in the Great War and had not so much been parked as just stopped in the road, blocking the path of a blue tractor that – although stationary – was still chugging breathlessly and bouncing on its springs. Alex saw the driver leaning against the wall of the local Co-op, dragging on a cigarette and reading the community noticeboard.
‘Hi, Euan!’ Hamish hailed, waving a hand in greeting as he tossed Alex’s bag in the back of the Landy and hoisted himself into the driving seat. Louise had already sent up her bigger suitcases on the earlier train from London.
‘Aye!’ The tractor driver waved back in return, taking another deep drag of the cigarette before dropping it on the ground, grinding it out beneath his boot and heading back to his own cab.
Alex smiled to herself as she fastened her seat belt – the same scenario in Mayfair would have played out entirely differently. The cap of a thermos flask peeped from beneath the lid of a cubby between the two front seats and the radio appeared to be held in place with duct tape. Alex was sure it was colder inside the car than out.
They pulled away, past a couple more rows
of stern white houses, and then almost immediately they were in the open countryside, thick hedgerows bordering lush pastures, the distinctive smell of peat heavy in the air. ‘Which distillery is that?’ she asked, pointing to the smoking chimney across the bay.
‘Lagavulin,’ Hamish replied without having to look.
‘Ah. The enemy.’
Hamish made a strange sound that suggested they might well be, pulling a hard right up a lane that travelled past the ruins of an old church and headed towards the gently swelling hills.
‘And what do you do at Kentallen?’
‘I work in the copper shop.’
Alex narrowed her eyes, trying to work out where this figured in the life of a distillery. Thanks to Louise’s excellent research skills, she had spent the past few days and the entire journey reading up not just on the company but on the wider industry as a whole and now felt sufficiently well versed in the technicalities of distilling to be able to set up whisky shop herself should she choose (which she didn’t).
‘Copper shop? That’s where the stills are worked, isn’t it?’
‘Aye.’
‘They all have to be beaten by hand. The shape determines the amount of condensation and the liquid run-off determines the character of the whisky?’
‘You’ve been doing your homework.’
She smiled. Preparation was her middle name. ‘If I remember correctly, the shape of the still is the most critical part of the distilling process,’ she added, showing off a little now.
‘Aye, but don’t tell the blenders that or they’ll have your guts for garters.’
‘Guts for garters,’ Alex murmured to herself with a smile. ‘Right.’
Hamish didn’t seem to feel the need to fill the silence with chat (well, what silence there was over the guttural racket of the Landy’s engine) and she was grateful for the opportunity to take in her new home – for the next three weeks, anyway – in peace. The landscape was modest and muted; she had been expecting craggy mountains and windswept moors, but the hillocky fields were parcelled with crumbling stone walls and the palette of gunmetal grey, heather and pine had been softened with a white gauze as Atlantic clouds smudged the sun from the sky. In the distance, she saw a small herd of red deer grazing by a thicket, the stag nosing the air imperiously, protectively.