by Karen Swan
‘Have you had any snow?’ she asked as they rounded a deep bend, the left-side wheels dropping into a pothole and sending them both bouncing on their seats.
‘A dusting a fortnight back. Not enough to get excited about.’
‘It was just starting to dump as I was leaving New York. Apparently over a metre fell the night I left. I think I got out in the nick of time.’
‘Isn’t that always the case?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Getting out of the city. Escape is always in the nick of time.’ A wry expression hovered over his features like that low-lying Atlantic cloud.
‘I take it you’re not from the big smoke?’ she asked, looking for an overhead handhold with which to steady herself; but finding none, having to make do instead with pressing one palm to the window and the other to the seat.
‘I was born four miles from here and the longest I’ve been off the island was nine days in 1982.’
‘What necessitated that?’
‘My mother dying in a hospital in Glasgow.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Hamish glanced at her, a kernel of scorn in his gaze though whether it was because the tragedy was so long past or so clearly unconnected to her, she couldn’t tell.
‘Is there a hospital on the island?’
‘At Bowmore, across the way, but there’s a doctor’s practice in town. You’re not sickly, I hope?’
She shook her head. It had been more of a command than a question. ‘No.’
‘Good. The weather would make short work of you otherwise. December can be an unforgiving month. It’s no time to be peely-wally.’
‘Peely-wally,’ Alex repeated quietly, slowly. She was fluent in French, German, Spanish, Italian and Mandarin, but Scots was new to her.
‘Aye,’ Hamish nodded, staring dead ahead. A sheep stuck its head over a low stone wall as they passed and she winked at it. ‘You’d best not be expecting postcard weather.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not the weather that’s brought me here.’
‘No,’ Hamish said, glancing at her again, a note of disapproval in his gaze as he took in her red Proenza Schouler coat, dress and heels. ‘I heard you’re coming here to boost morale.’
If he had said ‘coming here to plant rainbows’, he couldn’t have sounded more sceptical. ‘That’s right,’ she smiled, looking straight across at him this time to gauge his reaction. ‘The board feels some fresh thinking is required. You know, getting everyone out of their funk,’ she said with a wrinkle of her nose.
‘Funk?’ Hamish looked genuinely perplexed and Alex could imagine he’d be as perplexed by corporate-speak as she was by Scottish.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to have everyone paintballing around the oak casks in the name of team bonding. I’ve only been tasked to work with specific management personnel.’
At this, to her astonishment, Hamish threw his head back and openly laughed.
‘What?’ she grinned. ‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘I hope for your sake you’re not going to be including Lochie in those fun and games?’
‘Lochie?’
‘Aye, the boss. I can’t see him standing for much of that nonsense.’
‘No?’ she asked, not at all insulted. ‘And why’s that?’
‘Because Lochie’s not exactly . . .’ Hamish glanced across at her, biting his tongue suddenly. ‘Och, you’ll see for yourself soon enough.’
Disappointed by his discretion, Alex faced forward in her seat again and straightened up. ‘Well, do you at least have any tips for me, for dealing with the boss?’
Hamish chuckled. ‘Aye. Hold on to your wits, don’t bother trying to lie to him and never make him want to punch the wall.’
Alex frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘Because he’ll punch the wall.’
‘Oh. I see,’ she said as they continued bouncing along the road, cresting a hill to another vista of open fields, sheep and not much else. ‘Good tip. Noted.’
Chapter Three
The home of Kentallen whisky was set back from a small, deeply curved bay just outside the port. In front of it, the grey North Channel still swelled with suppressed menace but within the encircling embrace of the bay’s arms, the water was millpond calm and so clear that, even from this distance, Alex could see stray fronds of seaweed lilting in the pale water. The land around the bay on the far side rose steadily, forming the bedrock of the impressive purple-hued mountains in the near distance, and a couple of fields away sat a humble stone chapel and a crofter’s cottage. The distillery buildings were all painted white and, apart from a run of three-storey buildings across the back and a chimney pointing like a finger to the heavens, they were low and squat, with thatched roofs and bumpy walls. ‘Kentallen’ was written in bold black lettering along the entire length of one long building and hundreds of barrels were stacked in rows in the courtyard. And in the middle of it all sat a decommissioned copper still, as smooth and bulbous as a giant metal-cast onion.
‘Here we are.’ Hamish cut the engine and, leaving the keys in the ignition, he hopped out.
Alex followed suit, her eyes already noting the details: the couple of bicycles propped against a wall, a ginger cat sleeping on one of the barrels, the clatter of copper being beaten, barrels being staved, casks being charred, steam escaping the stills. A lorry was parked alongside one of the bigger buildings and being loaded, a team of thickset men rolling the enormous barrels up ramps the way she’d only ever seen in strong-man competitions. The ends of some of them had been painted red and all were stamped with ‘Kentallen, since 1915’.
‘If it’s the boss you’ll be wanting, his office is this way,’ Hamish said, heading for the low, small run of outbuildings in the middle of the courtyard, which had the bikes beside the door.
‘Should I bring my overnight bag?’ she asked, thumbing towards the back of the Landy.
‘Not unless you’re intending to sleep under the desk,’ Hamish replied.
Alex dodged the puddles, keeping up in her dainty heels as he strode across the courtyard oblivious to the muddy splashes on the backs of his trousers, one hand automatically patting the head of a handsome blue-black-and-white smudged English springer spaniel that came out to greet him as he knocked hard on the door. He entered without stopping.
‘That’s Rona,’ Hamish said to her whilst casting a quizzical eye around what appeared to be an empty office. ‘Huh. Where the devil’s he gone this time?’ he muttered. ‘Don’t worry, she won’t bite. She’s gentle to the point of daftness,’ Hamish said, glancing back at Alex and seeing her apprehension. ‘It’s Diabolo you need to watch out for.’
‘Diabolo?’
‘The cat.’
‘Oh.’
Hamish shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know where the boss is at. I told him I was going to fetch you.’
‘It’s fine. I’m sure he won’t be long,’ Alex said, taking her gaze off the dog and looking around. The room was dark with low ceilings, the floor laid with huge blackened stone slabs that were so old as to have been polished to a shine, and a small open fire – set into the right-hand wall to the side of the desk – was smouldering and crackling quietly. Alex had to resist the urge to switch on the table lamp; the dank, grey light outside the Crittall windows suddenly seemed blinding by comparison to this dark space.
How could anyone work in here? she wondered, remembering her own light-flooded office with underfloor heating and inviting kid-leather chairs, and the coral garden in the whole wall-set aquarium that emitted a gentle blue light perfect for soothing her frazzled CEOs.
‘I’ll go see if he’s in the maltings. Uh . . . make yourself at home,’ Hamish said, disappearing through the doorway.
Alex and Rona stared at each other again, before the dog gave a weary sigh and padded across the room to settle herself in front of the fire once more. Alex stayed rooted to the spot, trying to make a first reading of the person who inhabited this space.
The mess on the desk suggested he was . . . messy. She curled her lip at the sight of papers strewn, shuffled and towered across the work surface, two . . . no, three half-empty coffee mugs buried beneath like structural pillars; the half-moon of a plate emerging on the far side – she hardly dared look – revealed yesterday’s leftovers (spaghetti bolognese?); a pair of muddy trainers, the laces still tied and the backs pushed down, had been kicked off beneath the desk; a jacket and tie, still in the dry-cleaning bag, were hanging from a set of antlers on the wall behind the desk chair; the antlers were also decorated with a string of gold tinsel, and what was that red thing . . . ? She walked over and peered at the something she’d glimpsed behind the dry-cleaning bag. A bra.
A green-and-white vase that had to be of 1986 vintage was perched on one deep windowsill, with several desiccated sticks inside that Alex guessed had once been fresh flowers. Probably in 1986. A boxer’s punchbag dangled from one of the roof struts, some red gloves slung across the top by the laces.
She took a closer look at the papers on the desk – there appeared to be no discernible filing system, with one sheet bearing no relation to the one above or below it. There was a report from the Scotch Whisky Association about overseas growth in India and South America; an inventory of whisky stocks; a spreadsheet showing lots of big numbers; a copy of the Field; a printout of a blog for whisky connoisseurs; a catalogue from Sotheby’s for a Fine Wines and Spirits auction in 2012; a birthday card featuring a fart joke and signed ‘All the lads at KW’; a yellowing copy of the Sun open on the third page; a 2016 desk diary (although it was opened to 6 December, today’s date – she couldn’t decide whether that made it more or less alarming) . . .
Having seen enough, Alex stepped back and did a quick summary in her head. From a cursory glance, she could say this man was messy, yes, but also chaotic, adrenaline-fuelled, too close to the staff, disorganized, distracted. In short, she could already see he was unprofessional and she didn’t imagine it was going to take much to persuade her to Sholto’s conviction that he was incompetent too. The guy was heading up the single largest independent malt whisky distillery in Scotland (ergo, the world) and yet his office could have been that of a bookie or an NCP attendant.
Alex wandered over to the window and stared out into the yard. She always preferred to observe unseen; people revealed their true selves when they didn’t know they were being watched and from this vantage point, she could see into the open doors of the L-shaped buildings opposite. A few people in gumboots, black work trousers and red polo shirts were walking back and forth, sweeping the floor in one of the units to the left. One man in his early twenties was talking on his phone by the door. Hamish, just across the way, was standing past a set of sliding double doors and talking to someone out of sight. He didn’t use much body language when he talked but she saw enough of his eye roll and a head bob in her direction to know he was talking about her.
She waited. His hands went onto his hips. Impatience. Frustration.
Was it the boss he was talking to? Was he refusing to come over and talk to her? Sholto had warned her his CEO would be a truculent client.
With a quick glance at the sleeping dog, she walked out of the office and across the courtyard to where Hamish was talking. The clamour enveloped her and Hamish looked surprised to see her as she strode in, one arm already outstretched to a man who, she saw now, was in his early-to-mid-thirties with a thick thatch of golden hair, high-coloured complexion, freckles and the most raffish smile she had ever seen. He was incredibly attractive but even at first glance it was apparent he also knew it.
She inwardly congratulated herself on her assessment of him as their palms met. If she had had to choose from a line-up the man allied to the state of that office, she would have chosen him: arrogant, entitled, conceited. Why tidy up when someone else could do it for him? She could see he had been spoon-fed privilege his entire life. Everything had come too easy to him. He and his desk were made for each other.
‘Mr Farquhar, I’m Alex Hyde,’ she smiled, shaking his hand with a firm grip and having to talk more loudly over the din.
‘Miss Hyde? Mrs?’ he asked with a voluptuous accent.
‘Miss.’
His smile widened.
‘But please, call me Alex.’
‘Alex,’ he repeated, his smile still growing.
She paused, expecting him to reciprocate and ask her to call him Lochlan, at least, but when he made no move to do so, she added, ‘I’m very much looking forward to working with you, Mr Farquhar. I trust the chairman gave you the heads-up I was coming?’
‘Oh yes, absolutely, we all got the memo,’ he said with great warmth, before suddenly noticing Hamish was still standing there. ‘Oh, thanks, mate, I’ll take it from here.’
‘But—’
‘I said I’ve got it.’
‘Thanks for the ride, Mr Macpherson,’ Alex said as Hamish walked away with a dark expression and muttering to himself under his breath.
‘Och, don’t mind him. He’s as dour as we get round these parts. You had a good journey, I trust?’
‘It was fine. Well, until the ferry ride. I’m not great on the water.’
‘There’s a mighty swell all right; they’re predicting storms for the next couple of days. You were lucky to get here when you did. The ferries are going to be suspended from six o’clock tonight until the storms pass.’
She smiled. ‘How super.’
His eyebrows knitted together in bafflement. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s my first full-blown, authentic experience of island life – being cut off from the mainland!’ she said, loading her voice with intrigue.
‘Oh, I see. Well, I think we’ll have just about enough provisions to see us through,’ he grinned. ‘We certainly won’t go thirsty, that’s for sure!’
‘Quite,’ she said, looking around her properly now. The space was vast, far bigger than it seemed from the outside, with a vaulted ceiling, open to the rafters. Teams of men were moving about busily, some knocking out the staves of huge wooden barrels, others stacking them on pallets; some of the barrels were being reassembled within tight iron hoops and uploaded onto a conveyor-belt system, ready to be charred. She had read about the processes in such depth, she almost felt she’d experienced them already. ‘It’s an impressive set-up you’ve got here. How many people do you have working at the site?’
‘Oh, uh, it’s about . . . five hundred? Five fifty? Something like that,’ he said, looking around at the teams, all engaged in their hard labours.
‘Really? That many?’ Alex asked, watching his body language whilst knowing perfectly well they employed three hundred and forty-one people here and another twenty-four in positions around the globe, and that for every direct-line operative on site, they employed three times that number in the supply-chain industries of glass, closures, tubes, labelling, packaging, inspection, warehousing and distribution. That he didn’t know the numbers on his own payroll was alarming, to say the least. He might be an attractive, highly personable figurehead but charisma alone couldn’t yield profits.
‘Would you like to have the grand tour? I don’t usually do them myself, but I’d be happy to make an exception for you,’ he volunteered.
She nodded, keeping her opinions hidden. ‘Thank you. That would be very interesting.’
She let him lead her out of the building they were standing in and head across the cobbles towards the building next door. The wind had become gustier even since her arrival on the island and she could just about see the crests of white horses topping the waves out to sea. There were only a few more hours till the ferries stopped but she had to wonder whether they might call them off even sooner.
‘So how long are you staying with us for?’ Lochlan asked, pushing open a sliding door and stepping back to allow her in. ‘Long enough to allow us to take you for dinner, I hope?’
Alex didn’t startle as she stepped past him; she was more than used to being fed
this line (although not normally so quickly); she was also perfectly aware that it was usually done in an attempt to deflect attention away from performance to personality. ‘I’ll be here for as long as you need me,’ she said neutrally, making direct eye contact with him. It was the best method of dissipating a half-baked seduction and firmly batting away any illusion of romantic subtext.
Well, it usually did.
‘Great,’ Lochlan replied, his grin growing. ‘It’s a date then.’
Alex frowned and went to correct him, but at the same moment he turned and gestured expansively to a couple of tall red geometric machines that looked agricultural in form. ‘So, these are the grinding mills. It’s where the dried malt is—’
Reduced to grist. Yes, Alex knew this, but she kept nodding interestedly as he talked, noticing how he stretched his neck slightly in a sort of tic when he talked business, how he kept rubbing his ankle with his left foot, his arms crossed over his torso. He was sending out conflicting messages, though she didn’t think he’d be aware of that.
She followed him into the adjoining unit where two enormous steel tubs sat squatly, dominating the space. A man in overalls looked up as they walked in. ‘Hi,’ he said, clocking the boss and making to come over.
‘Hi! Hi!’ Lochlan said quickly. ‘Don’t mind us. We’re just doing a quick tour. We’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy.’
‘Who’s that?’ she asked quietly, watching as the man hesitated and then nodded, moving back to his workstation.
‘That’s, uh . . . that’s Jock.’