He read the titles of the word document folder icons displayed on the monitor desktop: Reservations, Business Bookkeeping, Private Events, Correspondence, Menus, Advertising, Tourist Sites. None of them looked promising. He moved the mouse cursor and opened the word file. Every file pertained to the guesthouse business.
When he double clicked the email icon a dozen mailings from Harvester caught his eye. He opened the first one.
From:Charles Harvester
Subject:Exterminating a Pest
Date:12 Nov
To:Jean MacNab
Jean—Things sound like they’re progressing nicely. Good to hear McLaren’s accepted the invitation and will be lodging with you. That’s one less problem I have to deal with.
I’ll be getting there close to when he arrives—don’t know the exact date yet. I’m waiting to hear from my son, Emory, whom I will visit either on my way to or from Edinburgh. Part of my yearly Christmas routine, but I don’t have to remind you of that!
I’ll be well chuffed to see Emory again, make no mistake about that, but I think the best Christmas gift I’ll ever have will be finally ridding myself of McLaren. We’ve hated each other since our days together in police school. I know I should’ve done something about it right after graduation, but anything that drastic would’ve pointed at me. Unfortunately, it’s just grown worse for me every time I see his damned face or read his bloody name in the newspapers. You’d think he was some kind of rock star or super hero, the way the media get wound up about the cold cases he supposedly solves. I’ve never been so sick in my life, being subjected to all that crap. Well, I’ve got a little plan that will rid me of Michael McLaren for once and for all, so my new year will be something to cheer.
Thanks for your help with this. C
McLaren frowned as he re-read the email. Their uneasy history went back years, but he had no inkling that he’d affected Harvester so greatly. Was Harvester’s little plan to murder McLaren?
He moved the mouse cursor to the Print command on the computer’s tool bar, then eyed the printer, and stopped. He glanced at the door. It remained closed. There was no sound beyond it in the hallway. Did he dare take a chance and print the email? Would the printer noise wake Jean? But he needed the evidence…
Thinking better of the situation, he relinquished his grip on the mouse and opened his mobile phone. His hand shook slightly as he tried to position the email in the viewfinder. He took a deep breath, telling himself this was no way to help the police, should it come to that. His trembling ceased, his heart rate slowed, and seconds later he had a photo of the email.
Another email subject looked damning, and he double-clicked on it.
From:Charles Harvester
Subject:The Lure
Date:16 Nov
To:Jean MacNab
Jean—Smashing about the room for your guest. Thanks for playing the hostess. One other thing comes to mind: can you find the old man’s home address and email it to me? I overheard McLaren talking about his family, and his grandfather in particular, during our forced mutual employment at Staffordshire years ago. Heard about it till I was sick of him and his bloody family. But who would’ve thought years later it would come in handy? I’ve got another little surprise planned for McLaren, once he gets there, but I need to know where his grandfather lives in order to set it up. Sorry I won’t be able to see the two of them react to all this, but I’ll get it second hand from him later, which is almost as good.
Thanks. C
McLaren’s grip tightened on the mouse as he stared at the message. Why did Harvester need Neill’s address? And what was the surprise that involved Neill and McLaren?
Unsure of Harvester’s intended actions and concern about his grandfather prompted him to photograph this email, too. He closed down the file, opened the next email and slowly read it.
From:Charles Harvester
Subject:Idea
Date:20 Nov
To:Jean MacNab
Jean—I’ve just about got it all set up, thanks to you. The old man can’t be living in a better spot for my plan. Maybe there is a God after all! I will have it all together by December, when McLaren arrives there. Not much left to do. Lanny’s got his instructions and he mentioned bringing in another bloke to help him. I’d rather it was kept between us three, but if Lanny needs help, that’s fine. Just so it works. Keep your lovely eyes open and let me know if McLaren gets suspicious, will you? I’ll be at the Station, of course, but a phone call can always get me if they need help. I may have to implement Plan B, but I doubt he’ll give any of this a second thought. He’s so egotistical he won’t suspect he’s been lured up there.
See you soon. C
McLaren sat in the darkness, the monitor alive and throwing shadows behind him. The house was silent, as quiet as the grave, but for the swift pounding of his heart. He glanced again at the door. Could Jean hear it in her room? It was an inane question, he knew, but his anxiety for his grandfather shoved his imagination into overdrive.
He grabbed his mobile for the last time that night and snapped a photo of the third email before returning it to its position on the dock. But he remained seated for another minute, the glow of the phone’s viewfinder startlingly bright in the darkness. The emails incriminated Harvester as surely as any verbal confession, evidence of a nasty, premeditated crime. Enough evidence for a criminal charge and dismissal from service, never mind the prison time. McLaren brought up the three photos on his mobile, made sure they were readable, then emailed them to Jamie with an explanatory note.
After putting the monitor to sleep McLaren left the room. He got back into bed but was still awake when his alarm clock rang at seven.
Chapter Nine
Breakfast and checkout didn’t come quickly enough for McLaren later that Thursday morning. He put on his best smile, thanked Jean for his stay, and forced himself to walk leisurely to his car. He’d never been so glad to see a place in a rearview mirror.
He left the busy M9 just north of Stirling, turning onto the A84. The road was a fairly straight shot northwest to his grandfather’s house in Auchtubh and then on to Balquhidder. Yesterday, before he’d read those disturbing emails, he’d planned to stop in Callander for an early lunch and then side step to Lade Inn, at the foot of Ben Ledi. He had missed the beer festival, but he wanted to see the inn, have a pint of Rannoch in the area where his family had roamed. But the fear that his grandfather was in danger spurred him directly to the small village. He’d do the sightseeing later.
Traffic thinned out the farther north he drove and he pressed down more firmly on the accelerator pedal. Light rain fell, more mist than liquid, and he flipped on the wipers. They squeaked before they spread the water evenly over the glass, then settled down to a rhythmic slap. The land flowed past his window, rising up in heather-patched mountains, forests, and flat bogs. Higher mountain peaks merged into the white clouds littering the dark blue sky, with smears of snow in the elevated glens and along the rocky outcroppings. The wind howled off the mountain slopes and stirred the trees before bending the tough stalks of grass. A frozen burn caught the sunlight and winked at him.
Rock seemed to dominate most of the landscape, from the stony crag faces and boulders to the timeworn rock cottages and shielings, the small huts used by herdsmen as living quarters as they watched over their sheep on the hillsides. Rocks lined the riverbeds, their roughness smoothed by centuries of flowing water, their colors intense. Rocks formed the land, provided building materials and sometimes weapons. He glanced at a kestrel hovering over a section of moorland and wondered why he’d stayed away so long.
It was ancient land, the land of his ancestors, and he felt a strange tug of his heart and tightening of his throat. He couldn’t contribute it to the concern over his grandfather’s safety. It was a link with his heritage. He’d not been back since his parents took him away as an infant, but the tie welled up inside him as though he were a sailor back from a long sea voyage.
He found hims
elf thinking of the lyrics to “Through Moorfields.” He’d never sung it with his folk group, but he’d heard it often in his youth, his mother singing it at night as she sat around the fire or finished up with the tea dishes.
Through Moorfields and to Bedlam I went;
I heard a young damsel to sigh and lament;
She was wringing of her hands, and tearing of her hair,
Crying, ‘Oh! cruel parents! you have been too severe!
~*~
‘You’ve banished my truelove o’er the seas away,
Which causes me in Bedlam to sigh, and to say
That your cruel, base actions cause me to complain,
For the loss of my dear has distracted my brain.’
~*~
When the silk-mercer first came on shore,
As he was passing by Bedlam’s door,
He heard his truelove lamenting full sore,
Saying, ‘Oh! I shall never see him any more!’
~*~
The mercer, hearing that, he was struck with surprise,
When he saw through the window her beautiful eyes;
He ran to the porter the truth to be told,
Saying, ‘Show me the way to the joy of my soul!’
~*~
And when that his darling jewel he did see
He kissed her, and sat her all on his knee,
Says she, ‘Are you the young man my father sent to sea,
My own dearest jewel, for loving of me?’
~*~
‘Oh yes! I’m the man that your father sent to sea,
Your own dearest jewel, for loving of thee!’
‘Then adieu to my sorrows, for they now are all fled,
Adieu to these chains, and likewise this straw bed!’
~*~
They sent for their parents, who came then with speed;
They went to the church, and were married indeed.
So all you wealthy parents, do a warning take,
And never strive true lovers their promises to break.
He listened as the last line died under the hum of the car tires and the sweeping click of the windscreen wipers. The sounds of the road and the car crowded into the enclosed space, returning the moment to the ordinary.
The song seemed strangely fitting. Not because he’d ever been in a similar circumstance but because it told of a separation. And even if the lovers in the song had been happily reunited, he doubted the outcome would be the same for him and his grandfather.
He dredged up the stories his mother had told him, recalled some of the clan history he’d read. Ian MacLaren had begun the family brewery in the early 1700s, sometime before the Jacobite Rising of 1745. Donald, a captain in the battle of Culloden, had escaped capture by the English after the Scottish defeat, but ended up with a musket ball in his leg and eventual imprisonment. He escaped in August 1746 on his way to his probable execution, disappearing into the mist near the Devil’s Beef Tub near Moffat.
That much was fact. But fiction took over and the story had two endings. It was a matter of the listener’s choice which to believe. Either Donald hid in a quagmire until he escaped at night to a friend’s house, where he finally died of his wound weeks later, or he eventually returned to Balquhidder and remained in the village, disguised as a woman until amnesty was declared.
He didn’t know which version he liked better. Both displayed Donald MacLaren’s ingenuity and nerve. All he realized right now was that he was proud to be part of the family, even if his grandfather tried to disown him.
And what about the man? Was he really in danger? The last email McLaren had read puzzled him, invaded what little sleep he’d had after his sojourn in Jean’s office. Harvester mentioned he’d be at the Station, but when McLaren phoned up the Staffordshire Station he was told Harvester wasn’t at work and wouldn’t be in the rest of the week. Had Harvester’s plan altered since the email date 20 Nov and now? Just over a fortnight, but things did change. Was Harvester instigating Plan B, as he alluded to? It didn’t much matter. McLaren tugged at the seat belt so it lay flat against his chest. The problem was that Harvester evidently was in the area and if he could be stopped…
McLaren’s breath caught in his throat. If Harvester could be found, the threat to Neill might be eliminated. Of course, it might depend on Lanny Clack, too. If he had to get orders from Harvester, and Harvester wasn’t around to give those orders, the kidnapping or whatever was planned, might not happen.
McLaren unzipped his jacket, suddenly flush with apprehension and desperation. He had to find Harvester. But where would he start? The only clue was from the email. The Station didn’t make sense.
Although the temperature was a chilly twenty-eight degrees, he cracked his window, letting in the cool air and the fragrance of his land. Wet turf and grass, pine and wood smoke filled the car and his senses and he inhaled deeply.
When he came to Kingshouse Hotel he turned off, leaving the A84 and the rain, and driving west on a small road toward Auchtubh. His chest tightened as he returned to his grandfather’s house, a large stone structure that dominated the village. A crenellated tower claimed the west section of the building, its arrow slits open and watchful. The slate roof shone from morning dew and frozen patches of light frost. Ivy lay thick on one wall and around the foundation, its dark green leaves ice-tipped. A remnant of another time, he thought, and his grandfather presided over its magnificent furnishings and few inhabitants with lord-like command and an ache for another century.
McLaren parked outside the massive front door. Now that he was here, he had doubts about his decision to come. He turned off the car’s motor and sat with his hand on the car key, his gaze at the window in the front room. Did the curtain move? Had someone heard his approach?
McLaren’s footsteps crunched on the gravel as he walked to the front door. Each step pounded into the quiet, booming out his presence. He paused, looking for the dog with which his grandfather had threatened him last visit. No opening gate or energetic growls warned him to turn and run. He reached for the brass knocker—a lion’s head grasping a large ring between its teeth; the ring lay heavy in his hand. His fingers slid over the smooth surface, colder than Harvester’s heart. How would he convince his grandfather his life was in danger? Would the older man even listen to him?
He slammed the brass circle against the plate affixed to the door. The bang reverberated loudly against the solid wood. Appropriate his grandfather had chosen the lion’s head. The MacLaren clan crest featured a lion’s head.
The cold of the flagstone porch invaded his boots, and he stomped his feet on the welcome mat. No response issued from the house. He knocked louder.
A wisp of wind snaked across the courtyard and swept past McLaren. He flexed his fingers—the cold threatening to stiffen them—and stared at the windows. No one peeked out, no light switched on.
He pressed the doorbell. No footsteps hurried to the door, no bolt slid from its metal cradle.
His heart thudded against his ribcage and he lost track of the number of beats or how long he stood there. He turned, debating if he should ring the house on his mobile or shove a note through the letter box, when he heard the sounds of metal skating across metal, and a latch clanking. Complaining door hinges squeaked and he turned to find a middle-aged man standing in the open doorway.
“Michael?” The word came out more statement than question, and the man stared at McLaren in frank surprise. When McLaren nodded, the man said, “I’m Brandon. Your dad’s brother.”
McLaren stood as if frozen in movement, undecided if a handshake or a hug was best. They were strangers, for all the family blood they shared, so he’d be more comfortable with the handshake, but wouldn’t that seem cold?
He stared at his uncle, trying to merge the younger man of the family photographs with the decades-older person now standing before him. The eyes were the same, brown and hinting at humor within their depths, though the crow’s feet were more pronounced. The brown hair had grayed sl
ightly but was still full. A suggestion of McLaren’s father shone through Brandon’s lopsided smile, and even in the few words spoken McLaren could ascertain the timbre of his father’s voice.
“Yes.” McLaren extended his hand and felt his uncle’s warm clasp. “I’m Michael.” Relief flooded his veins and he grinned. “I-I’ve thought of you often, heard about you from my mum and dad.” He paused, knowing it sounded inane, wanting to bridge the years in an instant, to be taken back into his family. He shifted his weight, unsure of what he should do.
Brandon opened the door wider and gestured toward the hallway. “Come in, come in. Don’t stand there like a stranger, lad. You’re family, aren’t you?”
McLaren followed his uncle into the front room, large and wallpapered and warm from a fire burning in the grate. Reminders of the family and clan’s past hung on the walls and perched on bookcase tops; the eyes of sepia-toned ancestors followed his movement across the room and watched him accept a cup of tea from Brandon.
He endured the minutes of small talk, the preliminary exchanges of how-have-you-been, opinions of the weather, updates on family members. It was an icebreaker, a method to connect after decades of isolation, a way to see if they would like each other. Although McLaren wanted to know his uncle, inwardly he resented the spent time. He needed to get to the subject that drove him to come.
“So, what brings you here?” Brandon finally said, easing McLaren’s anxiety and moving the teapot on the side table. “Not that it isn’t nice to finally meet you and talk.” His right eyebrow rose as though letting McLaren in on a joke. “Another try at your grandfather?”
“Actually, I need to warn him about something.” McLaren eased the cup onto the table and leaned forward. “I have very good reason to believe his life’s in danger.”
The trace of humor vanished from Brandon’s face. “You’re joking, of course.”
“I’ve read some communication that makes me believe this.”
“Well, when will this happen…and where? Here?” He looked around the room, as if judging its defensive strength.
An Unfolding Trap Page 11