Alistair cast his eyes on his schoolmate’s sleeve. The button was different in size and shape from its fellows.
“I’m better off than I was, but if Pater had taken the accountant’s advice, well, I’d be living your kind of life.”
Alistair waved away Fin’s invading stream of cigarette smoke. “My kind of life…isn’t what you imagine.”
“It’s not?”
“And I was hoping you might be able to help me.” Alistair looked over his shoulder at the adjacent table. It was empty. “I need to sell a few things and I was hoping you could put me in touch with someone suitable.”
“Dear boy, whatever are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the black market.”
“What makes you think I would know anyone in that despicable trade?”
Humiliated by the admission, Alistair lowered his gaze. “Look Fin, say what you will, I know you have the connections.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
Fin took a deep drag on his cigarette and released a long stream of smoke. “Sorry to disappoint, dear friend, you can tell whatever you think to whomever you like. Publish it in the papers for all I care. Who knows? Maybe it would be a good idea. Then I could sue you for slander and collect a few pounds in the process.”
Alistair knotted his fingers. “Don’t even think of suing me. Think about what might happen if your precious family were to find out that it was really you who disposed of some of their most valuable pieces.”
“I see.” Fin raised an eyebrow. “Now, that would pose a bit of a problem. Might have to have you killed.”
“That would be doing me a favour.”
“What are friends for?” Fin smiled, revealing perfect but yellowed teeth. “Seriously, no more talk of lawsuits and violence. How’s your sister?”
Alistair started to sweat. “Not helping me, that’s how.”
“Oh, that’s sad. Family’s supposed to stand by you,” he said, laughing. “Just like my beloved clan has. I’ll need another drink if we’re to continue talking about a business arrangement.”
Alistair waved over the barman, who refilled Fin’s glass, then disappeared into the dining room.
“Fin,” Alistair hissed. “Help me. Please.”
“Now that I think about it, I believe I do know a couple of gentlemen with the knowledge you require. I think they prefer to call themselves fences.”
Alistair stirred uneasily in his chair. “Fences?”
“Admittedly, low-class slang for those who buy and re-sell property that has been misappropriated, if you will.”
“It’s not been misappropriated. It’s mine and I’m disposing of it as I see fit.”
“Well, then why not sell it at auction? Why involve your poor dear old school chum?”
“Like you Fin, I’m just a bit short of cash at present. I need to move quickly. What do these fences charge?”
Fin took out another cigarette, and regarded it as if it were more important than the subject of the conversation. “It depends on the goods. They have to be compensated for the risk they take.”
“I understand that. You may as well know I’m under pressure from the Bank. It’s threatening to freeze my account.”
“You don’t say. You want to sell off the family silver, so you can meet its demands? What a shame, that’s true. I can help you, and that’s a shame. And more’s the pity, Alistair, that you and I have sunk so very low.”
Alistair rubbed his jaw. His knees shook. He was sure his blood pressure was at an all time high. “Yes, yes. We’re both complete losers. I admit it. But we can help each other. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I should hope so. The entire affair is quite beneath my station, you understand.”
Alistair swallowed hard and tried to conceal his anger. “I’ll give you two per cent of whatever your associates get for the items.”
“That sounds like a very small sum.” Fin tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. “What are they worth?”
“Twenty thousand, at the last valuation, but I would hope to get more than that.”
“Sorry, no can do. Five per cent and I might think about it.”
Sweat beaded on Alistair’s brow. He couldn’t afford to go back to the estate empty handed. “All right. Five per cent, not a penny more.”
Armstrong leaned back in his chair and studied his fingers. “I’m tired of Glasgow. I need a break. Throw in a weekend in Paris, and seven per cent of what I get for your trinkets and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Armstrong. You’d better not let me down.”
“Oh, no of course not,” smiled Fin. “Now, shall we have a look at what’s on the menu? I feel some escargot and champagne are in order. Don’t you?”
Chapter Thirteen
Anna hadn’t seen Luke for two days, but every time she wrote about the dark-haired stranger in her book, he stole into her thoughts, making it impossible for her to concentrate on her work.
“Botheration!” she said to the dogs as she passed them on the way to the kitchen. As a student, when she’d had trouble with an assignment, she’d found a glass of wine helped order her thoughts into coherency. Maybe it would do the trick tonight, she thought, as she uncorked the bottle of wine left over from dinner.
She carried her glass into the sitting room and placed it on the table next to the sofa. Balancing her laptop on her knee, she started to type.
For five days we journeyed through the long and lonely glens, leaving the hills of Knoydart far behind. At night we found shelter where we could, but more often than not we slept under the stars with only bracken and heather for our beds, and our plaids for warmth.
Twice we came across a huddle of ruins where a village once stood. Nearly every cottage had been burnt to the ground by unscrupulous factors and henchmen of the Laird. Those inhabitants who remained were in a sorry state, being injured, old or too infirm to travel with their families who had already left for the coastal lands. They had little food and shelter and no means of finding more. I knew in my heart that they would not survive the winter. Where the hardship was greatest—my husband—as I shyly came to call him—gave what money he could spare, but we knew it would not be sufficient to help these poor destitute souls.
On the morning of the sixth day, we entered a town and procured lodging in a small inn, not far from the quayside. We ate a meagre supper before retiring to our bedchamber. I shook with fear at the thought of sharing the bed with my husband, but I need not have worried, for he did not touch me, other than to pull me into his arms for warmth.
As my eyes fell heavy with sleep a vision came to me. I saw my village with its cluster of cottages, the smoke no longer rising from the chimneys. Most of the houses lay in ruins, their roof timbers burnt and charred. The women stood weeping, their shawls wrapped tightly around them against the bitter wind and driving rain. The men sat in despair, for there was nothing they could do but accept their fate. What few possessions they had were either burned or destroyed, and those that could be salvaged provided little comfort. I saw the children clothed in rags, haggard and shivering from the cold. There were no fires, no cook-pots of steaming broth.
I saw a people betrayed by a master they’d served all their life.
A glass and a half later, Anna gave up working on her manuscript. Although more relaxed, she was no nearer getting Luke out of her mind than she had been an hour earlier. Why did he have to turn up just as she was getting over Mark? Why did he have to be so attractive? His sexy grin sent her heart rate soaring every time he looked her way. The man should come stamped with a health warning. She wasn’t completely sure that this woman back home wasn’t his fiancée or wife.
Stop—stop this nonsense, she told herself. Luke had a smile that would melt the iciest of hearts, but he was damned annoying too. She took another sip of wine. What was it about him that managed to keep her on the defensive?
She looked at
the dogs. “And a fat lot of help you two are!” Their tails thumped in response, but neither moved from the rug in front of the fire. “He’s your new best friend since took you for a walk.” She leaned back into the sofa and took a sip from her glass. “At least he’s not blond like Mark. I now officially hate men with blond hair.”
Not quite sure how to react when she next saw Luke, she gave up thinking of men and him in particular. Unsteadily, she got to her feet and realized she’d drunk way too much, and would pay for it in the morning with a ferocious hangover. She turned out the light and climbed the steep stairs to her bedroom.
Someone in her dream was knocking at the door.
Only it wasn’t a dream.
In the hallway below, the dogs barked as if the devil was pounding at the door. Anna bolted upright and screamed. Cold, icy sweat trickled down her back as her heart beat erratically. Her breath caught in her throat, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t gulp in air. Panic like she’d never known before coursed through her veins. She threw back the quilt and traced the line of the wall until her fingers closed around the heavy walking stick her grandmother always kept propped against it. She slid one foot to the floor, then the other. Every muscle in her body shook. Tiptoeing out of the bedroom, carefully avoiding the squeaky floorboard on the landing, she made her way downstairs.
Her legs shook as she followed the dogs into the kitchen. Her trembling fingers felt for the light switch. She flicked it on, but nothing happened. She clamped her lips together and choked back a cry, and wondered why the emergency generator hadn’t kicked in, as it should. Fumbling in the darkness, she edged her way to the dresser, yanked open a drawer, and felt for her torch.
In the weak, narrow beam, everything appeared normal. Yet her instincts told her something was wrong. The dogs howling in the near darkness, knew it too. She crossed the hallway and swept the torch around the small sitting room. Nothing seemed out of place. Too scared to open the curtains to peer outside, she retraced her steps.
“What is it, girls?” she whispered. “What can you hear?”
The dogs stood on either side of her, the warmth of their bodies seeping through the thin fabric of her oversized T-shirt to her ice-cold skin beneath. Teeth bared and snarling, they stared at the door. The silence was suddenly broken by an explosive bang. Anna shrieked and dropped the torch. Ensay and Rhona barked and jumped at the door. She picked up the torch and spun around as another loud crash came from the rear of the croft. Icy fear twisted in her stomach. She collapsed on to the bottom stair, and kept her eyes fixed on the firmly bolted door. She weighed the walking stick in her right hand and the torch in her left. Neither offered her comfort. She needed something more substantial.
There was a metal poker next the Aga.
Carefully, she edged her way into the kitchen, and grabbed the poker along with the largest of her kitchen knives. She crept back into the hallway and took up her vigil once more.
Suddenly, the front door handle turned. The door rattled, pushed back and forth by an insistent hand. She swallowed a scream, dashed into the kitchen, grabbed a chair, and wedged it under the handle. The dogs went berserk. The sound of their barking echoed off the walls, and filled the tiny house with a cacophony.
The knob rattled.
Anna couldn’t breathe.
It turned again then stopped.
Cold and too scared to move, she listened for the slightest sound or movement. All she could hear was the rapid beat of her heart and her own ragged breathing. She rubbed her arms and legs vigorously, trying to bring some warmth into her frozen limbs.
Ensay and Rhona grew quiet, but still darted from room to room as if chasing some spectre. Anna leaned her head against the wall and willed her body to relax.
She sat on the stairs. When no longer able to bear the cold, she staggered into the sitting room. The embers in the grate were almost gone, but she threw on some kindling, crying in relief when it began to crackle and burn. She added a little coal and the driest log from the basket and sat back on the rug.
A vague scratching sound came from the window. Her head whipped round and she stared at it, hardly daring to breath.
Silence. Then more scratching.
Someone was trying to force the catch.
Her heart pounded. Spasmodic shivers prickled her skin. Mesmerized, she watched. Would the old lock hold? She wasn’t sure. She wanted to run from the house, but there was no one to run to for help.
She stood in the dark and screamed.
Chapter Fourteen
Bright sunlight flooded in through the cabin’s tiny porthole, carrying with it the ‘gah-gah-gah’ cry of the herring gull that had taken up residence on top of Sandpiper’s mast. Luke groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. Four mornings in a row the bird had wakened him. If he had a shotgun, he’d have blasted it into a million feathers, but knowing the way his luck was going, he would just as easily have missed and punched a hole in a sail. He opened one eye, looked at his watch, and groaned again. Six-thirty! Not only was the gull consistent, it was also as accurate as his Rolex.
He climbed out of his bunk and shuffled his way across the cold, unyielding deck to the small galley. After taking two painkillers, and drinking a cup of coffee, he felt able to face the day. He peered through the galley window—not a ripple showed on the surface of the loch. Even the rigging was silent. There was no sign of movement over at the croft either, making it a perfect morning for a swim.
With a towel slung over his shoulder, he opened the hatch. Safe in the knowledge that there was no one to see him, he emerged naked. He crossed the deck and dived in. The icy water enveloped him, shooting agony through every muscle. He came to the surface gasping for breath. Anna was right about the temperature—it was so cold he felt as if ten thousand needles were stabbing him.
He whipped his head round to clear the hair out of his eyes and set off in a fast crawl. Ten laps later, breathing fast and hard, he heaved himself up on to the swim step, wrapped the towel around his waist, and headed for the shower.
By ten-thirty the thermometer had climbed into the mid-seventies. The weather forecast predicted even higher temperatures by midday. Stripped to the waist and wearing a pair of cut-off jeans, he sat sketching on deck. His yacht had been anchored in the loch for nearly a week, but every day he saw something different in the landscape. Today it was serene, with the water dark and still beneath a cloudless sky. The mountains, with their snow filled crevices, reflected perfectly on its glassy surface. The door of the croft remained closed. He hadn’t heard the dogs, or Anna’s cranky old Land Rover, and wondered if she’d taken the day off.
Dismissing her whereabouts as none of his business, he concentrated on his drawing. Noon came and went with no sign of Anna or the dogs. By one-thirty, he started to feel uneasy about not seeing her. It wasn’t right. He clambered into the dinghy and rowed across the loch.
Her curtains were still closed. Puzzled, he tried the door, but it was firmly locked. He circled round to the rear of the croft. The Land Rover was parked in its usual place adjacent to the cowshed, but when he felt the hood, the engine was cold. He was about to walk away when he noticed the left front tyre was flat. He squatted down to examine it more closely.
It wasn’t simply flat. The tyre was slashed.
This was no accident. It was deliberate. Swallowing a curse, he ran back to the front of the croft and pounded on the door.
“Anna! Anna, if you’re in there, open up.”
On the far edge of her nightmare, Anna heard someone calling her name. The voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t tell whose it was. Disorientated, she fought her way through the cobwebs of sleep and opened her eyes.
“Luke? Luke, is that you? Oh, thank God!” Shaking and gasping, she staggered to the door. She dragged the chair from under the handle and drew back the bolts.
He gathered into his arms and held her while she sobbed. “Hey, sweetheart. Shush. It’s okay.” He waited until she finish
ed crying then held her at arm’s length and studied her face. Her green eyes, wide with fear, were ringed by dark shadows. Her skin felt clammy, but that didn’t surprise him, since the T-shirt she wore barely reached to the middle of her thighs.
“Come into the kitchen,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist and gently steering her towards the old rocking chair. “I’ll make you a hot drink.” He added a log to the firebox of the stove and opened the vent.
“That would be nice, but I must see to the dogs.” She struggled to stand, but Luke pushed her back into the chair.
“The dogs are fine. They’re outside. Stop worrying about them and concentrate on yourself. Now tell me what happened.”
Too tired to argue, she nodded and bit her lips to control her sobs. She sat huddled in the chair, her hands twisting in her lap while he filled the kettle and placed it on the hotplate to boil. He found two mugs in a cupboard, a jar of instant coffee and a packet of teabags in another.
He turned to check on Anna. She was shaking violently. Without hesitating, he dashed up the narrow stairs and flung open the first door he came to. He pulled the quilt off the bed and carried it back down to the kitchen. When he wrapped it around her shoulders, she flinched and shrank from his touch before snuggling into its soft, downy warmth.
Luke leaned against the kitchen table and watched her from under hooded eyes as she nursed the mug of sweet tea. Her hands were trembling so much that some of the hot liquid spilt into her lap. He’d never seen anyone so scared. Her eyes darted to the door, as if she expected someone to appear at any moment. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable, that he wanted to hold her in his arms until her fears melted away.
Despite his need to comfort her, he was annoyed with her too. She was a grown woman and didn’t need reminding of the risk she took living in such an isolated place. He fought his temper.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
Anna nodded with a taut jerk of her head.
The House on the Shore Page 11