by Jane Renshaw
‘Thank goodness Dad didn’t find them,’ said Kirsty.
Max frowned. ‘But they need to be told, Mum. They need to be told not to blast away with airguns in our wood. At crows or at dogs or at anything else.’
‘And you think your grandfather would have restricted himself to giving them a bit of a telling off?’ Linda suddenly put her hands up to her face, and Kirsty touched her arm.
‘Mum? It’s okay, he–’
‘No, it’s not okay, Kirsty!’ Linda heaved in a big sigh, and dropped her hands to reveal a face stiff with distress. ‘Your father was convicted of assault last year and given a suspended sentence. If he gets into any more trouble – and I mean any more trouble – he’s going to prison.’
Phoebe stared at her grandmother.
‘Whooo,’ said Max.
Kirsty said nothing, so it was left to Bram to ask: ‘What did he do?’
‘Another driver pulled out in front of him at the Carrbridge junction – you know how bad that junction is?’ she appealed to Kirsty.
Kirsty looked blank, as if she hadn’t heard.
‘The man said the sun was in his eyes and he didn’t see David approaching. David tailed him to his house and confronted him on his driveway, started shouting the odds, and ended up punching the poor man. Several times. Broke his nose and jaw.’
Kirsty briefly closed her eyes. She hated violence of any kind, and wouldn’t even watch crime dramas on TV. Although she hardly ever talked about it, Bram knew how much she struggled with the bad memories of what she had been through as a teenager, and being back home must be churning it all up again. And now Bertie had been shot and she’d just discovered that her dad had been convicted of assault.
No wonder she was freaking out, in Kirsty’s own particular, quiet way.
And Linda evidently sensed this, because she attempted a smile in Kirsty’s direction. ‘But it’s all done and dusted – if he keeps out of trouble, there’ll be no more repercussions. We didn’t tell you because – well, there was no point in upsetting you.’
‘He had to appear in court?’ Kirsty asked at last. ‘There was a trial?’
Linda nodded. ‘He got a six-month suspended sentence.’
The first thing Bram saw as he drove over the little bridge and up the track to Woodside was the police car parked in front of the house, alongside a silver BMW he recognised as belonging to Scott Sinclair, Fraser’s best mate, who was a Detective Inspector with Police Scotland and was based at Aviemore, a tourist hotspot about ten miles away. Presumably Fraser had called him. Bram parked in front of the verandah and hustled everyone up the steps and inside.
‘Have the police caught him?’ Phoebe asked.
‘I don’t know, kleintje. How about you see if Bertie wants some water?’
‘I’m going out to see what’s happening,’ said Kirsty.
‘I’ll come with you. Kids, stay inside with Grannie and Bertie, okay?’
Phoebe immediately latched onto his arm. ‘No, please don’t go out there!’
‘Whoever it was will be long gone. They’re hardly going to hang around with the police all over the place, are they? Scott’s a very important policeman in CID.’ He pushed a stray strand of Phoebe’s hair back into her ponytail. ‘He’s here to make sure the careless person with the airgun is caught. And remember what the vet said, Phoebs? It was only an airgun pellet, and those aren’t really dangerous.’
‘It hurt Bertie!’
‘Yes, but it was only a graze, and he’s going to be absolutely fine.’
Phoebe nodded, and then she smiled up first at Kirsty and then at Bram. ‘Okay!’ And she skipped happily off to the kitchen to show Linda where Bertie’s water bowl was.
Their little will-o’-the-wisp. Bram smiled at Kirsty, and, to his relief, she gave him a little smile in return.
‘Tell your father to come back to the house at once, please, Kirsty,’ said Linda grimly.
They found David and Fraser standing at the edge of the wood talking to Scott. Scott Sinclair was one of those guys in whose presence Bram always found himself trying to stand tall and pull in his gut. Scott would definitely have a six-pack under that crisp white shirt and perfectly knotted grey tie. And he had a Paul Newman thing going on – bright blue eyes and chiselled features.
‘Dad,’ said Kirsty without preamble. ‘Mum wants you back at the house right now.’
‘Okay, princess.’
It bugged Bram when David called Kirsty that – there was an implicit sexism in it, not to mention classism. But Kirsty said she didn’t mind it, that it was just the same as Bram calling Phoebe kleintje. ‘Kleintje means “little one”,’ Bram had objected, and Kirsty had countered: ‘But you never used it for Max, did you?’ Fair point.
Scott moved closer to Kirsty and leant in for a half-hug. ‘You okay?’
Bram could feel his caveman instincts kicking in again. Scott and Kirsty had ‘gone out together’ when they were fourteen and thirteen, respectively. Scott was happily – as far as Bram knew – married with a kid, but still.
Kirsty nodded. ‘What’s happening? No sign of them?’
‘Not a dickie-bird,’ said David.
‘Dad, you need to go in to Mum right now!’ Kirsty snapped. ‘She’s fucking furious with you and no wonder!’
Whoa.
Kirsty never swore.
‘Okay, okay,’ said David, backing off with his hands raised, as if placating a wild animal. ‘I’m going, I’m going.’
‘We know about the conviction,’ Kirsty said to Scott and Fraser as they all stood watching David plod off across the grass towards the house.
Scott grimaced.
‘Yeah,’ said Fraser. ‘I told Mum and Dad they should come clean – I mean, it was only a matter of time before you found out. But it was no big deal, Kirst. A road rage incident.’
‘He broke the man’s nose and jaw,’ said Kirsty. ‘He could have killed him!’
Fraser shrugged, looking as sheepish now as David had.
Tense silence, which Bram felt he should break. ‘So, what’s the story with this airgun enthusiast?’ Enthusiast? That made it sound like the person responsible was enjoying a nice hobby, out in the fresh air shooting guide dogs. That was another thing about being around Scott – Bram often found himself coming out with a load of nonsense. ‘Or psychopath, as Phoebe is calling him.’ Oh yeah, that was so much better.
Scott raised his Paul Newman eyebrows. ‘We’ve searched your wood, and a couple of PCs are giving the Taylors’ land the once-over now – and I’ve been over there to alert the Taylors to what’s happened. There’s no sign of anyone hanging around, but there’s evidence of a camp fire in the westernmost quadrant of your wood, the one furthest from the house. And some rubbish, cans of lager and crisp packets.’ He shrugged. ‘Kids.’
‘This is a bit below your pay grade, Scott, isn’t it?’ You ungrateful bastard, Bram. ‘Thanks for coming out,’ he added weakly. And that made it sound like he was talking to a tradesman.
More eyebrow action. ‘Fraser called me.’
‘Oh, ah, yes, right.’
It was a bit of a mystery why this ultra-sophisticated, successful guy was friends with Fraser, but apparently they’d been best mates since the first day of primary school, when the two five-year-olds had bonded over a shared obsession with football.
Bram became aware of the sound of a chugging engine, and a massive four-by-four appeared over the bridge.
‘The Taylors,’ said Kirsty.
Whenever the Taylors came over they drove, although it was just a five-minute walk up the track from their house. The lazy bastards.
Bram shook himself mentally. The Taylors were lovely people. Where was this vitriol coming from?
Scott raised a hand and strode across the grass towards the Taylors as they disembarked, twinkly Paul Newman smile in place, as if he, and not Bram and Kirsty, owned Woodside. Kirsty and Bram followed in his wake.
The Taylors had brought their kids alo
ng for the ride, Finn and Cara, nineteen and sixteen, respectively. Andrew and Sylvia would probably be in their early fifties, another generation, almost, from Kirsty and Bram. Andrew was your archetypal middle-class, middle-aged male, pink shirt and designer jeans, polished brown shoes, living high on the hog and beginning to show it around the midriff and in the fleshy ruddiness of his face. Sylvia was the archetypal mum, plump and smiley and chatty, with a tip-tilted nose and cat-like eyes that made her look like one of those 1950s actresses.
‘What an awful, awful thing!’ she exclaimed, bypassing Scott, Bram was pleased to note, and coming straight over to him and Kirsty. ‘How’s Bertie?’
‘Oh, he’s going to be fine,’ Kirsty reassured her, smiling, almost visibly relaxing a little. Sylvia had that effect on you, somehow – she oozed empathetic sympathy.
Scott had engaged Andrew in conversation, and was now gesturing at the wood. The two kids were kicking their heels, in Finn’s case literally. He was heeling a clump of grass and, as Bram watched, switched to kicking it with his toe. He was a tall, sporty boy who always seemed to be on the move, never sitting still for long, always fidgeting and jiggling about. His large brown eyes and strong jaw in combination with his mum’s little tipped-up nose gave him a cartoonish look, like a teenage superhero in a comic, always on the look-out for action. His sister Cara, in contrast, looked half asleep and utterly, utterly bored. Her skinny frame was slumped against the four-by-four as if she couldn’t wait for this to be over so she could get home and shut herself back in her room. Her hair was pink with green tips.
‘Max is inside,’ Bram called over to them.
‘Why don’t we all go in?’ Kirsty suggested.
They found Linda in the armchair by the ‘wireless’ in the Walton Room, Bertie in his bed at her feet. David was slumped at the kitchen table. Bram got the impression that their arrival had interrupted a frosty silence.
Cara, touchingly, was transformed when she saw Bertie in his Perspex collar.
‘Oh no, Bertie!’ she crooned, dropping to her knees on the rug by his bed and gently stroking his head. ‘Poor Bertie.’
‘He’s okay,’ Phoebe assured her. ‘It’s just a flesh wound.’
Finn shook his head at Max, as if to say Girls.
The group separated into adults round the kitchen table and kids in the sitting area, and Bram bustled about getting everyone coffee and tea and biscuits.
‘Probably just some idiot child,’ said Andrew, stirring milk into his coffee. ‘After rabbits.’ He indicated Bertie with his teaspoon. ‘Similar colouring.’
‘Have you had any trouble before, with kids with airguns?’ Bram asked.
‘No, never.’
But Sylvia was looking at her husband. ‘Local kids do hang out around here a bit. It seems the woods have been used by youngsters in the summer for years – just doing what teenagers do, hanging out and getting drunk. Loud music and high spirits. Litter. Some damage to trees…’
‘Bloody Nora,’ said David. ‘And you didn’t think you were in any way bound, in common decency, to let Kirsty and Bram know about this when you sold them the plot?’
Sylvia made a face. ‘It was more of an issue when we first bought the place. Recently we’ve had hardly any trouble at all. So no, we didn’t think to mention it. Sorry.’
‘They’re harmless,’ said Andrew airily. ‘Just kids letting off steam.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
A shrug. ‘No, sorry.’
‘Finn? Cara?’ Bram called over to the kids. ‘Do you know who these kids with an airgun might be?’
Finn, who was standing with Max showing him something on his phone, shrugged. Cara ignored him. Bram waited for Andrew or Sylvia to tell them to answer when they were spoken to and stop being so rude, but nope.
Bram let it go. The teenage code of honour being such as it was, it was probably futile trying to get any information out of them. Maybe Max could go undercover and try to find out what, if anything, they knew.
Scott was leaning back against the worktop, tie now slightly loosened, cup of coffee in one tanned hand. ‘What I’d advise is putting up some notices in the wood. There are two paths through it, yes, that cross in the middle? Put the notices in prominent positions where each path enters and exits the wood itself, where they cross, and maybe where your track meets the public road.’
Kirsty nodded. ‘Notices saying what?’
‘Private property – please observe the Scottish Outdoor Access Code. Anyone caught lighting a fire, shooting or otherwise causing damage will be prosecuted. Something like that.’
‘Or,’ said David, ‘how about: “Enter at your own risk. The owner reserves the right to kick your arse”?’
‘Which reminds me to add,’ said Scott with a smile: ‘Avoid inflammatory language.’
David snorted. ‘They’ve got it coming. If I catch any of the wee toe-rags–’
‘You’ll what, Dad?’ said Kirsty sharply.
David simpered at her. ‘I’ll give them a right earful. That’s all I meant, princess. Read them the riot act.’
Kirsty got abruptly to her feet. ‘I have some work to finish off. Excuse me.’
As she passed Bram’s chair she shook her head at him, her expression saying I’m fine, don’t stress, and strode away to the corridor that led to her study.
Awkward silence.
‘What a thing to happen on your first day in your beautiful new home!’ said Sylvia brightly. ‘It’s gorgeous, Bram. This kitchen! Last time I saw it you were having the floor laid. I love the colour of the units.’
Bram leapt on this topic gratefully, describing his search for just the right shade of green. Sylvia enthused over everything in a rather gratifying way, and Bram found himself conducting a house tour for the Taylors plus Scott.
‘Wow,’ said Andrew in the Room with a View. ‘This has really come together.’
Bram nodded smugly. Damn, he wished he’d plumped those cushions.
‘The view’s the star of the show, of course,’ he said modestly, crossing to the doors to the terrace. He found himself pausing when he reached them, looking out across the paddock to the wood. He felt suddenly reluctant to open the doors.
And –
Bloody hell, yes, there was someone there!
Someone was coming out of the wood!
‘There!’ he said urgently, turning to Scott. ‘There’s someone–’
‘Yes, Bram, that’s one of the PCs.’
‘Oh.’ And now he saw that yes, it was a man in a police uniform, wading through the knee-high grass. Damn.
‘I’d better go and see what they have to report.’ Scott reached past Bram to open the sliding doors and strode away, over the terrace and along the path to the paddock, raising an imperious hand to summon the minions.
Sylvia was walking down the room to the reading area at the far end. ‘It’s so light and airy, but cosy at the same time.’ She beamed at him. ‘I love this bookcase, and the old leather chairs. Like a mini-library. You’ve got a designer’s eye, Bram, you really have.’
‘Oh well, I don’t know about that. But thanks. Unfortunately, my efforts in the garden have been rather less successful. The vegetables I planted have all died.’
‘Oh dear! What happened?’
‘I’ve no idea. I think maybe I didn’t water them enough.’
‘But they were reasonably well established, weren’t they? They shouldn’t have needed much watering.’
‘Or maybe they had some kind of blight.’
‘They can’t all have died?’
‘Yep.’
‘Hmm.’
Sylvia was a keen gardener. A few weeks ago she’d shown him and Kirsty round their garden with justifiable pride, and as they’d strolled down the gravel paths lined with clipped hedges and across well-tended lawns, Bram had picked her brains.
‘Actually, Sylvia, would you mind taking a quick squizz?’
‘Mind? Mind? I love a good problem area!�
��
Andrew groaned. ‘There’s no such thing as a quick squizz at a garden where Sylvia is concerned. We’ll send out a search party if you’re not back in an hour.’
As Bram and Sylvia headed out, he warned her: ‘It’s not so much a problem area as the scene of a natural disaster. Brace yourself. I don’t imagine you’ve ever experienced quite this level of incompetence.’
When they returned to the house a speedy ten minutes later, Kirsty still hadn’t reappeared, but Scott was standing on the rug with his back to the unlit stove in the Walton Room, like Poirot in the library smugly delivering his verdict.
‘Nothing to report in the Taylors’ wood either. As I say, if you put up some notices, that’ll hopefully discourage any more incursions.’ As if they were talking about marauding hordes, Genghis Khan and his Mongol horsemen, thundering through the wood, battleaxes poised ready for action, but when they saw the notices, reining in their mounts to peer at them and wonder in what way they might be contravening the Scottish Outdoor Access Code.
‘Right, thank you, Scott.’ Thank you and piss off.
‘Where have you been, Dad?’ Phoebe launched herself at him. ‘I was really worried.’
Damn. But he’d known her equanimity was too good to last, with Bertie lying there in his cone looking sorry for himself, a constant reminder of the ‘psychopath’.
‘Oh, well, no need to worry, Phoebs.’ He kept his tone light. ‘I just went out to look at the veg patch with Mrs Taylor.’ He gently prised Phoebe away and looked over her head at Max. ‘Why don’t you and Max find paper and pens to make some notices with? You’re the artist of the family, after all.’
‘Come on, Picasso,’ said Max, immediately divining Bram’s intention. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got in your room.’
When they’d gone, Bram turned back to Scott. ‘The vegetable plants have all been weedkilled.’
‘Weedkilled?’
Sylvia nodded. ‘That’s my diagnosis. There’s no other explanation for why every single plant would suddenly die. Someone’s applied weedkiller to them.’
David burst out laughing. ‘Before everyone jumps to conclusions and starts blaming the feral kids for that too, I think we may need to look closer to home on this one.’ He slapped Bram’s back. ‘Eh, Bram?’