The House on the Shore

by Victoria Howard

  “How did your family get the croft?”

  “According to the deeds, the thirty acres which now form Tigh na Cladach, was gifted to the then-Laird’s son in 1750.”

  “So you’re related to the Grants.”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t get it.”

  Anna smiled. “Many estates were entailed and passed to the eldest son on the death of his father. However, if a Laird had an illegitimate son, he couldn’t very well leave him the family home as that meant acknowledging the child was his. Instead, he would transfer a small piece of land and settle a sum of money on the child. I’ve always assumed that’s how the croft came into the MacDonald family.”

  “So you are related.”

  Anna laughed. “Not in Scots terms. Ah, here we are.” She pushed open the door marked Planning Department.

  A spotty clerk stood behind a well-worn wooden counter.

  “Hello, Jason,” Anna said, reading his name badge. “I wonder if you can help me.”

  “It depends what you want. If you’ve come to file a planning application you’ll have to wait until the office manager gets back. I’m only a trainee.”

  Anna smiled. “Actually, I’m enquiring whether anyone has lodged an application for Tigh na Cladach, in Kinloch Hourn. Do you think you could take a look for me?”

  Jason hesitated. “I’m not supposed to, Mr. Jeffries could be back any minute. He’s my boss.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you took the tiniest peek on your computer. It would only take a moment.”

  “I suppose I could.” He looked down at his feet. “But only for a moment. Mr. Jeffries doesn’t want me doing things without him. I’m new, you see.”

  “That would be really helpful. And don’t worry, we won’t tell Mr. Jeffries.”

  “I would hope not. He gets quite angry.”

  “We’ll prevent that. It would be such a help to me, Jason. It’s my property, you see. I just want to make sure my architect has filed the plans for my house…er my extension. He can be a bit forgetful.”

  “There’s nothing listed under Tigh na Cladach.”

  “What about MacDonald, or Killilan Estate?” Anna asked.

  Luke drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk while Jason accessed his computer.

  “There’s nothing listed for them either.”

  Crestfallen, Anna looked at Luke. “I don’t know what else to suggest.”

  “Try looking under the holding company,” Luke replied.

  Anna turned to the clerk. “Is there anything listed for Grant Holdings, or Killilan Holdings?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Thanks for your trouble, Jason,” Luke said and slipped a £20 note across the desk.

  Jason grinned. “Thanks. Sorry I couldn’t help. I’d have a word with your architect if I were you. And thanks for not telling Mr. Jeffries.”

  “It will be our secret,” Luke said. “Come on, Anna.” He caught her hand in his. “There’s just enough time for us to go to the boatyard to see if the pump for the autopilot came. After that, we’ll get something to eat.” He held open the door for her.

  “I felt sure we’d find something,” Anna said as they left the building.

  “I know you did. I don’t think you have any other choice now other than to contact the police.”

  “But I don’t see what they can do.”

  “Put it this way,” he said pulling Anna to a halt. “It will become a matter of record, and if anything else happens, they’ll have to take you seriously.”

  It was nearly midnight when they arrived back at Morag’s cottage. A solitary light showed through a gap in the curtains. They found her in the kitchen drinking cocoa.

  “I thought I heard a vehicle. You must be fair worn out. The kettle’s just boiled. I’ll make you some tea.”

  “Thanks, Morag, but if it’s all the same to you, we’ll get on our way. We only stopped to hand your keys over and pick up my Land Rover.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. But you must tell me how you got on before you go.”

  Luke put his arm around Anna’s shoulders. “It was a waste of time. Nobody’s applied for planning permission in the last six months. We tried searching under different names, but there was nothing listed. We went to the police and reported the incident with the prowler and the bogus surveyor.”

  “And a good thing too. This business with the surveyor got me thinking. About two months before your grandmother’s death she received a letter from a solicitor offering to buy Tigh na Cladach.”

  Anna threw up her hands. “Oh, my God. I completely forgot! I had a letter, too. It was from a firm in Glasgow. I was going to write back and tell them to go to hell, but it clean went out of my mind. I wonder why Nana never told me. I don’t recall finding anything among her papers after she died.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t want to worry you, lass. You have to remember; her mind did wander towards the end. More to the point, she loved the croft and would never have agreed to sell it. It was her dying wish that it should go to you.”

  “And you think these letters are significant? That whoever sent the letters also sent the surveyor?” Luke suggested.

  “Aye, I do.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Anna. “Why would anyone want to buy Tigh na Cladach? The land is barren and rocky, and totally unsuitable for farming. It wouldn’t sustain a cow, let alone a flock of sheep. The house is basic, to say the least. The only person to whom it has any value, is me.”

  Luke tapped his chin with his index finger. “Obviously someone somewhere has a reason for thinking otherwise. Did you see the letter, Morag? Can you remember the name of the solicitor?”

  “Alisha never showed it to me. I doubt that I would have remembered, anyway.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll write to grandmother’s solicitors to see if they know anything.”

  “You’re not angry with me for not telling you earlier, are you?”

  “Of course not,” Anna replied, and hugged her friend.

  “That’s a relief.” Morag yawned. “Did you have time to enquire about the part for the yacht?”

  Luke sighed. “Yeah. Seems it’s not a make easy to find over here. The boatyard is having one shipped from the States.”

  “Then you’ll be staying with Anna a little longer?” Morag smiled. “That’s good. My, my, will you look at the time. It’s well after midnight and we’ve work in the morning. I think you ought to take the lass home.” She handed Luke the keys to Anna’s Land Rover.

  Chapter Twenty

  Unable to sleep, Anna crawled out of bed. Her eyes were dry. Staring at the clock every twenty minutes will do that to a person, she chastised herself.

  When Luke didn’t wake, she pulled on her dressing gown and crept down the stairs to the kitchen, being careful not to tread on the two sleeping dogs lying in front of the Aga. Although dawn was only just beginning to creep over the horizon, there was enough light for her to see clearly. She took a glass out of the cupboard next to the fridge and filled it with milk.

  She thought about the letter from the Glasgow Solicitors.

  It had been waiting for her when she arrived at the croft. She remembered sitting down at the table and reading it, but what had she done after that?

  She jerked open the centre drawer of the oak dresser, which doubled as her filing cabinet, and rooted through the disordered contents. The first thing she found was the guarantee for her iron. That’s a really big help, she thought, and put it to one side. There was also the receipt from the garage for the two new tyres on the Land Rover. Had they really cost that much? She yawned and dropped it on top of the guarantee. Hidden underneath the tea towels were some batteries for the torch, a ball of string, and a dog lead, but no letter. She dumped it all back in the drawer and slammed it shut.

  She leaned against the dresser and took a sip from her glass. Luke had arrived the day after she’d received it. She’d been drafting a reply when she saw him wal
king up the beach.

  She hunkered down and examined the floor, but there was no sign of the letter. If it wasn’t in the dresser or on the table, then it had to be in the sitting room.

  Silently, she crossed the hall and opened the door. The hinges squeaked in protest. Her pulse raced. Her laptop lay on the table next to the armchair. She reached to pick it up.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Anna spun round. The laptop slipped out of her grasp and landed on the chair with a thump. Luke was standing in the doorway wearing nothing but his jeans. She hadn’t known him long, but she recognized the warning in his voice.

  “Nnn…nothing. You scared me!”

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his left hand. His right hand, out of sight from Anna, tucked the gun he was holding into the waistband of his jeans.

  “I scared you? I thought the prowler came back. You’re damned lucky I didn’t run down here and smack the crap out of you.”

  Anna swallowed. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d come down and look for that letter.”

  “Anna. It’s five in the morning. What were you going to do if you found it? Drive to Inverness and demand to know who their client is?”

  “Glasgow! The solicitors are in Glasgow.”

  “Glasgow. Inverness. Edinburgh. Toronto. Whatever. What difference does it make? No one will be there. I’ll help you look for it in the morning.” He cupped her chin.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “You know I am. Now come on, let’s go back to bed. I’ll give you a back rub to help make you sleep.”

  “I’ll let Ensay and Rhona out first, then I’ll be right up.”

  Luke let out a sigh. He opened the font door and stepped aside to let the dogs out.

  Across the loch a light glowed in Sandpiper’s main cabin.

  He hadn’t left any lights on.

  “What the hell!” He pushed Anna out of the way.

  “That hurt!” she said, and rubbed her arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Someone’s on the yacht. Call the dogs. Lock yourself in the cottage. Don’t open up until you see me.”

  “But—”

  It was too late. Luke sprinted barefoot across the lawn. Crippled by renewed terror, Anna stared as he untied the rope securing the small inflatable dinghy and started rowing across the loch.

  Luke pulled steadily on the oars. They hardly made a ripple on the surface of the loch. He circled Sandpiper. Tied up against the hull, out of sight of the croft, was an inflatable dinghy. He felt the casing of the outboard engine. It was still warm. He shipped his oars, being careful not to bump into the hull. He tied his dinghy to the swim step and climbed aboard.

  The hatch leading to the accommodation was open.

  He hadn’t left it that way.

  He drew his gun and flipped off the safety. Crouching and listening, he stepped into the cockpit and crept down the companionway to the galley. Even in the twilight, the interior of the yacht looked like it had been through a hurricane. Books, CDs, DVDs, and charts lay strewn all over the cabin floor.

  Silently, he tiptoed passed the table toward the master suite. He swept the gun in an arc around the cabin.

  Rough soles scraped against the deck. A drawer squeaked open.

  His mouth spread into a tight-lipped smile.

  His cabin door was ajar.

  The bastard was still inside.

  He kicked the door open. It slammed against the bulkhead. He dove for the floor. He looked up. He was alone.

  Suddenly, something hard connected with the back of his head. His heart slammed. The walls and floor spun. The bastard had been hiding in the shower stall all along. He struggled to reclaim his balance and stumbled through the cabin after his assailant.

  He heard an engine start. With a silent curse he crawled up the companionway ladder. As he reached the top, he saw the intruder’s inflatable head for the far shore, the dark figure of a man at the helm. His body sagged. There was no point in trying to follow. His assailant had too much of a head start.

  He climbed back down into the galley and pulled some ice out of the fridge. He wrapped it in a cloth and held it to his pounding head. He poured himself two fingers of bourbon and sat down until his vision improved. He looked around the cabin. As far as he could see nothing was missing, but the knowledge gave him little comfort. It did tell him something about the prowler. He might be an experienced burglar, but he was an amateur when it came to boats fitted with expensive gadgetry.

  Which meant only one thing.

  Whoever had crept aboard was looking for information.

  He put down his drink and went on deck to examine the lock on the hatch. There were scratch marks on the woodwork. It had been picked, not forced, which meant his uninvited guest had come tooled for the job.

  While he stowed his books, CDs, charts, and drawing materials away, Luke wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into. His dark eyes narrowed. It wasn’t often that he thought about his old life, but tonight was one of those rare occasions. For the first time since he’d left the service, he wished he had access to the Bureau’s vast database and resources.

  He’d retired five years ago. Most of the forgers and thieves he’d had a hand in convicting were still serving jail time, although it was possible one or two might be up for early parole by now. What if they’d somehow tracked him down? His very presence could be endangering Anna’s life.

  He’d felt uneasy ever since she had told him about the prowler. Burglars targeted towns and cities, places where they could make a quick buck. They didn’t drive into the countryside unless they were planning to rob a million dollar country mansion stuffed to the rafters with antiques. If this had been Boston or New York, he could believe some asshole was stalking a woman with the intent of scaring the bejesus out of her. But out here?

  By her own admission, Anna wasn’t rich. Her father was a diplomat in China. Could that be the reason behind the attack? He chewed on this for a while. If her father had upset the Chinese Government, they would have simply expelled him from the country. They wouldn’t threaten his daughter.

  Luke swallowed the last of the bourbon and poured another. Perhaps her father had been instrumental in some company or other failing to win a lucrative contract, and they were planning on using Anna as leverage. He tossed that idea out. Anna would have to be in China for that to work.

  The more he tried to reason it out, the more his head ached. He picked up the small oil painting and wrapped it in a bag. Better to keep it in the croft than here on the yacht.

  He glanced at his watch, almost seven, time to get back to the croft. He’d left Anna on her own for way too long.

  Anna stood on the pebble beach, clutching the collar of her coat as Luke dragged the dinghy ashore.

  “The next time I tell you to stay put, you damn well better stay put!” He grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the croft.

  “Ow! Let go! You’re hurting my fingers!”

  “You’re lucky it’s only your hand.”

  “Listen, you—”

  He spun her around. “No, you listen. Standing here makes you a perfect target for a marksman. Am I missing something critical about your personality? Do you just want to die?”

  Anna’s face drained of colour. Her mouth opened. No words came out.

  “Somebody could shoot you where you stand, and you’re practically inviting them! Now do you understand why I told you to stay indoors?”

  Anna understood only too well.

  “I’m—I’m sorry. You were gone so long I was worried you were hurt.”

  “There’s nothing that a hot shower and some food won’t cure.”

  “And Sandpiper? Is there any damage?”

  “Whoever broke in picked the lock. They trashed the cabin, but as far as I can tell, they didn’t take anything of importance.”

  “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “Ye
ah, well, it’s happening now. Your glen’s having a regular crime wave.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fin Armstrong steered his ruby red sports coupe through the twisting glen toward Killilan House. The little car hugged the tight corners as if on rails. It was heaven to drive. It might not be brand new, but it was new to him, and there was plenty of life in the engine and hardly a mark on the paintwork. He smiled. If it hadn’t been for the chance meeting with Alistair Grant, he’d still be driving that old heap of a Mini. At last things were on the up.

  He turned through the tall, ornate granite archway, topped by the Grant family crest, which marked the entrance to Killilan House. He pulled the car to a halt, lit a cigarette and wound down the window.

  When times began to change, the Grants grew more safety conscious. Alistair’s father had added white metal bars and fencing to ensure that the great unwashed stayed out of Valhalla. Fin laughed at the thought. He used to be one of the gods. Now he was unwashed, and no longer great.

  Before going off to Oxford University, he’d been a constant visitor to the estate. The Grants were known throughout the county for their lavish parties. He’d rubbed shoulders with dukes, earls and princes, even kissed a few princesses in his time.

  The country set from all over Scotland and Europe came to shoot grouse and deer on Killilan estate. They’d be up before dawn for a breakfast of porridge, eggs and bacon, topped off with a glass of whisky, then venture into the hills for a day’s stalking. They would walk miles in search of their quarry. Around noon, a leisurely lunch would be served at one of the many bothies on the estate. Champagne, caviar, smoked salmon, better than a Fortnum and Mason’s hamper. Then it would be off stalking again before returning to the house in time for a sumptuous dinner of pâté foie gras, grouse, pheasant, salmon, venison or beef, rounded off with numerous wines and a bottle of vintage port.

  One year, he recalled, he’d caught a fourteen pound salmon in the morning, shot three brace of grouse and a stag in the afternoon, and danced with Alistair’s sister, Sophie, until dawn. It had been a capital day’s sport.