Oh God, was Harry looking for her? Beatrice hurried out of the kitchen but before she was halfway across the hall Harry erupted from the main office, shouting, ‘Beatrice! Where the hell is the woman?’
Harry Drummond was no taller than Adam but he was more powerfully built, wide-shouldered and deep-chested. He was, even Beatrice had to admit, quite a good-looking man, with thick dark hair and blue eyes, but he had what she described to herself as a cruel mouth, a straight line with corners that turned down in repose, and the jutting jaw of the bully.
She had tried to convince herself that she had no reason to be scared of him – what could he do, after all? He could hardly sack her, with the charity depending on her income. But it never worked.
She scuttled across to him. ‘Here I am, Harry. What did you want?’
‘There’s a file I need. It’s marked “Donors X-list”. Find it for me, then bring it to the office.’
Colour flared in Beatrice’s cheeks. ‘I – I don’t know where I’d find it, Harry. There isn’t a file with that name on the computer.’
‘Not on the computer.’ He spoke as if she’d been a fool even to imagine it would be. ‘A paper file. They’ve been moved out of the filing cabinet.’
Beatrice swallowed. ‘I – I’ve never had anything to do with those files. I think Adam perhaps moved them.’ She knew Adam had moved them, and she knew why. She was feeling sick.
Harry stared at her, the rather prominent blue eyes bulging. ‘I see. Is there no limit to the damage that bloody idiot has done?’ he said. ‘Get it from him, then, and bring it to me.’
‘I—’
He spun round. ‘Yes? You what?’
She’d been going to go on, ‘don’t like to disturb him,’ but she changed her mind. ‘Nothing, Harry. I’ll see what I can do.’ Asking Adam, stirring up the memories of the morning when the files had been moved, worrying that he would see her fears in her face, was the lesser evil. She would just be very calm, very matter-of-fact.
She could sense the tension whenever she obeyed his call to come in. The dog was sensing it too; it was restless, its eyes always on its master who was standing by the window looking out.
‘Yes, Beatrice,’ he said without turning round. ‘What is it?’
She was happy not to have to meet his eyes. ‘Harry wants a paper file called “Donors X-list” and he wondered if you had it?’
‘Oh – oh yes.’ He went to a wall cupboard and when he opened it she could see that the shelves, set deep into the wall, were piled with untidy bundles. On the floor beside it was a stack of random books and papers that had clearly been dumped there to make space.
Adam looked helplessly at the confusion and with a reflex reaction she stepped forward. ‘Would you like me to sort these out for you, Adam?’
‘No!’ It sounded like the crack of a whip and the dog gave a small whine.
She recoiled, but Adam went on hastily, ‘Sorry, sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I’ve just had a difficult time with Harry – you and I both know how pig-headed he can be!’
He smiled at her, a conspiratorial smile, and suddenly she felt better. ‘Of course. That’s all right. But are you sure I can’t …?’
The ‘no’ this time was more polite but just as definite. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll take it to Harry myself.’
Beatrice nodded. She was on her way out when she turned to say, ‘What time are you going to want to have supper tonight, Adam? It’s just—’
He was carrying a pile of files across to the coffee table in front of the fireplace. ‘For God’s sake, Beatrice, I don’t know!’ he snapped. ‘Whenever.’
He didn’t apologise this time. Biting her lip, she went out. It was all very well to say that but you couldn’t produce a fish pie the way he liked it, with a nice crispy top, in five minutes, and if it wasn’t ready when they wanted it, there would be another scene. Tears of self-pity gathered in her eyes as she went back to the kitchen.
But in a way, having something practical to worry about was a relief; it blotted out the terrible sense of foreboding that had possessed her, as if they were all just waiting for something to happen. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew it was making her feel sick and sweaty.
For once she looked at Vicky’s chocolate mousse with a shudder of revulsion as she put it into the fridge.
‘He’s driving up from Edinburgh today,’ Sergeant Buchanan said. ‘DI Kelso Strang.’
‘What sort of a name is that – Kelso? Thought it was a town. Couldn’t just be called something like Jimmie, could he?’ PC Murray’s hackles were up already.
‘Perfectly good Border name,’ Buchanan said. ‘His mother’s maiden name, maybe. Folk have all kinds of reasons for what they call their kids, Olivia.’
Murray could hear that he was grinning. She’d made the big mistake of telling him she’d been named after Olivia Newton John, for God’s sake, and now she failed to think of a smart reply. What came to her instead was a sudden unwelcome thought. ‘They’re not expecting him to stay in the police house, are they? Because I don’t take lodgers and that’s flat.’
‘We-ell, you know how tight the budget is …’
She was drawing in her breath to protest when he laughed. ‘Winding you up’s almost too easy to be fun. No, you’re in luck – the locals around here are a bit straight-laced and the high heid yins have decided it wouldn’t go down too well to have a man moving in with an innocent young girl. They obviously didn’t know it was you.’
For what was very possibly the first time in her life, Murray found herself grateful to the top brass. She ignored the slur on her character, since there was a distinct lack of evidence to refute the allegation.
‘So where’s he staying, then?’
‘The hotel. Just booked in for a couple of nights so I don’t reckon he’ll be bothering us long.’
‘Can I just say, “Nothing to look at here, sir. Move along, please”?’
‘You can. Not saying it would be a good idea though, Livvy.’
‘Oh, I know.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll get down there and say hello in the evening, maybe. OK, Sarge.’
Murray put the phone down and looked at her watch – half past three. If he’d set off promptly in the morning, he could be arriving any time now. Maybe she should check that all her ‘i’s were dotted and all her ‘t’s crossed; in her experience DIs tended to be picky types. She picked up the file from the basket on her desk and found Daniel Tennant’s number.
He sounded eager when she identified herself. ‘Any developments?’
‘Sorry, no. Just checking – anything more you thought of that could be helpful?’
‘Oh.’ His voice went flat. ‘Of course not. I’d have let you know immediately.’
‘OK. There’s a detective inspector arriving from Edinburgh later this afternoon and no doubt he’ll want a word. Not going to disappear too, are you?’
‘No, no. And thank God that there’s someone competent coming to deal with it at last.’ He rang off.
This was obviously her day for collecting slurs. She phoned Vicky Macdonald, who said much the same thing, if rather more politely.
That was her bases covered. She checked that the paperwork was in order, then decided she was entitled to a break; having a drink with an inspector this evening would count as work, in her book. What she liked to do in her spare time was to have a wee wander round the shops but since the only shop available was the local Spar, that wasn’t on the cards. Still, it was a beautiful sunny day and she needed the exercise, so with a brief sigh for Sauchiehall Street she changed into a tracksuit and ran up the hill behind the police house. She’d award herself a teacake when she got back.
It was a relief for Beatrice to be back at her desk, doing the familiar routine things – vetting applications for funding to put in front of Adam, sending out grateful acknowledgements for donations, sorting through the household accounts which Eva, of course, had failed to write up before she le
ft.
There was a list beside her now that she’d compiled giving details of different timings for the evening meal, depending on the time the men drifted towards the drawing room for drinks; lists always gave Beatrice a sense of security and she felt more confident about it now. She didn’t know where Adam and Harry were – in the office, perhaps. She hadn’t seen either of them all afternoon and the house had been quiet.
Absorbed in her work, she jumped when the doorbell rang, and then her heart jumped too. Unexpected visitors had been bad news lately. But it was her brother, Quentin, who stood on the doorstep, wearing a shabby Barbour jacket, red cords and an ingratiating smile.
‘Hello there. How’s Trix?’ he said jovially.
Ignoring the tired joke, she said, ‘What do you want?’
‘Well, that’s a nice welcome, after I’ve driven all that way round the bay to see my favourite sister.’
Beatrice didn’t move. ‘Your only sister.’
‘Yes, well – look, can I come in? It’s bloody freezing out here.’
There was a brisk breeze, whipping up whitecaps on the bay, and his brown floppy hair was blowing over his face; he shivered elaborately, huddling the jacket round himself.
‘Oh, all right.’ Beatrice stood aside with a bad grace and led him back into the office, pulling forward a chair then going back to sit at her desk.
Quentin looked about him discontentedly. ‘Why do I always have to see you in the office? You’ve got a flat, haven’t you? Why don’t we have a family chat up there?’
‘Because I have work to do and I’m busy. What do you want?’
He sat down reluctantly. ‘Where’s Carnegie?’
‘I don’t know. He and Harry Drummond are around somewhere.’
‘At home, then? Look, is he likely to come barging in? We need a proper talk.’
‘If you’re looking for a handout, I can’t give you more than twenty pounds until the end of the month.’
‘No, it’s not that – though if you could manage that, wouldn’t say no, I’m a bit short, actually. The thing is, Grayling’s been in touch. He’s not happy about what you’re doing.’
Beatrice bristled. ‘I fail to see what reason my trustee could have for being in touch with you. Or, indeed, what right he has to express an opinion about what I choose to do, provided it’s within the provisions of the trust.’
‘He wants to stop you being exploited, Trixie.’ He caught her look of irritation and went on, ‘Beatrice, then. Look, that’s all it is. We both do – I’m your brother, after all! I don’t like to see you being made a fool of.’
‘What you mean is, you don’t like to see my money going to people who really need it and will make good use of it, transforming lives, instead of handing it to you to squander. That’s what it’s about, Quentin.’
He flushed. He had a quick temper and she could see that she’d riled him. He persisted, though.
‘He tells me you’re not paid for the work you do here – in fact, that you’re basically paying for the privilege. Carnegie conned you out of your house, now he’s milking you for your income.’
She had a temper herself, when roused. ‘It’s not going to Adam, it’s going to the charity, and it’s my pleasure and privilege. You’re a nasty, money-grubbing—’
‘To the charity? Is it? What are they paid, him and his pal? And where did the money come from for the BMW at the front door, and the Mercedes that’s sitting across in Balnasheil, waiting for him to come over in the natty little motorboat?’
She was pale with anger now. ‘Snooping, were you? Charming!’
He held up his hands. ‘Hey, hey! Let’s not quarrel. There’s just the two of us, we haven’t anyone else, and if your own brother can’t be trusted to look after you, along with the trustee Father appointed himself, who can? Why don’t you let me take you down to London to see him? He wants to suggest you sort out the legal side of things—’
‘You mean, make a will leaving everything to you?’
He didn’t answer immediately.
‘Aren’t you going to say, “Blood’s thicker than water”? You usually do when you talk about the charity. Anyway, Adam needs his comforts. There’s a huge weight on his shoulders, running the whole global operation. I’m happy to do anything that makes it easier for him.’
‘Haven’t you noticed that he’s keeping you a prisoner here? Seeing to it that you’re well away from your family and friends, from anyone who might give you sensible advice?’
It chimed with her own misgivings, that was the thing. Sometimes she’d felt that herself and she had a sudden vision now of the little bridge group she’d belonged to, of the chat and the laughter. When was the last time she’d actually laughed? But she suppressed the rebellious thought instantly. She had to, otherwise everything she’d built her life around was a con trick and she was a victim.
But Quentin spotted her hesitation and pounced. ‘Wake up, Beatrice. He’s not interested in you for your pretty face, is he?’
She caught the sneer that he wasn’t smart enough to hide. She drew a deep breath and with a heady kind of bravado went on, ‘Anyway, it will sort itself out. We’re getting married.’
His jaw literally dropped. His eyes flickered across her and she knew he was seeing the rolls of flesh under her gathered skirt and long jersey top, the pudgy cheeks and the layers of chins.
‘He’s going to marry you?’
She used anger to keep the pain out of her voice. ‘Oh, I know what you think, but looks aren’t everything. We share the most important things, ideals and—’
‘Money, your money.’ Quentin had jumped to his feet in his agitation. ‘As if he hadn’t made enough of a fool of you already! If he’s proposed, he’s laughing at you. It’s a joke. And a swindle – I take it he knows you get control of the lot once you marry?’
‘No, he doesn’t.’ She lied bravely, but she could see he wasn’t convinced. She got up herself. ‘Get out, Quentin. And don’t come back. If there’s anyone who’s a swindler, it’s you.’ She picked up the bag that lay at her feet and found her purse.
‘Oh, I seem to have a fifty. There you are – that’s your pay-off. There’s no more going to come your way.’
Beatrice was pleased that he took it. Confirmed in her moral superiority, she despised him. And saying those words – ‘We’re getting married’ – had actually felt wonderful, wonderful. Spoken aloud to another person, they had made the dream more real, as if in some strange way that made it more likely to come true.
CHAPTER SIX
Tummel, Loch Rannoch, Lochaber – the familiar place names set ‘The Road to the Isles’ singing in Kelso Strang’s head as he went on his way to Skye. It almost felt like setting off on one of the West Coast holidays his family had always taken when he was a kid and he smiled at the memories: fishing for mackerel off the end of a pier, damming a burn, skinning his knees on the scree scrambling up a hill …
It was an improbably glorious day. Loch Laggan was a mirror reflecting the snow-dusted peak above it and the dark pine forest on its shores; the great slabs of stone that were the surrounding hills had an ice-blue tinge where their tops pierced the skyline. The heather was past and the bracken no more than damp, dark orange swathes of rotting vegetation, but the miles and miles of bog and bleak moorland were still beautiful today, their greens and browns punctuated with the silver of burns and little lochans.
And then there, at last, was the scimitar curve of the Skye Bridge, connecting the mainland to the famous island. There wasn’t quite the same romance in crossing it as in taking a boat ‘over the sea to Skye’ like Bonnie Prince Charlie, but it was certainly quicker.
He’d naively expected the wildness to start as he came off the bridge, and as he drove through the little villages of Kyleakin and Broadford, that admittedly had pretty sea views and hills behind but were almost suburban in their ordinariness, he felt a sort of childish disappointment. It was too domestic, too tame …
Then rou
nd a corner, towering high above the lower mountains and making them look suddenly puny, was the Black Cuillin ridge shimmering in the strong sunlight, mottled with snow-filled corries. He actually gasped.
Nothing had prepared him for this – this stark, savage statement of power. It flung a challenge as crude and contemptuous as a street fighter’s ‘Come on, if you think you’re hard enough.’ The roll call of deaths on these mountains was eloquent testimony to the folly of accepting it.
As the foothills closed in around him he started to feel almost physically oppressed. It had been a long, tiring drive and he still wasn’t as fit as he should be, even though he’d started running again; maybe he’d get in a bit of that before he left. He had reached a single track road now, with sheer slopes on either side, and he had to crane forward to see the sky above the tops.
He could tell the tourists on this road; they were the ones who hovered nervously beside passing places as he approached, like children playing musical chairs. Locals, on the other hand, hurtled towards him with a terrifying insouciance, and it needed good timing to adjust his speed so that whether the passing place was on his side or theirs, neither car had to stop. It was a definite skill and as a trained police driver he started to enjoy himself.
By the time Kelso saw the sign for Balnasheil he reckoned he had the technique cracked, and when he rounded a bend his spirits lifted at the sight of a glorious panorama opening up to more distant hills and sea, with the peaceful little township straggling below him that held the prospect of a bath, a meal and a good night’s sleep before he started work in the morning.
Even having done all his homework he still wasn’t sure why he’d been sent up to what looked like a straightforward case. The underlying story was probably illegal immigration; perhaps the missing woman who seemed to have been employed here had somehow got the offer of a better job and had taken some care that she couldn’t be pursued, either by her former employer or the authorities.
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