by R. D. Nixon
‘Of course. But on the off chance they got into it, with any luck they’ll have nicked Suze’s cat, and I’ll have an excuse to go back to that shop with the nice lookin’ fella in charge.’ She grinned when he rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, let’s go back in. It’s actually really interesting if you let your imagination work for you.’
So they went back into the blackhouse museum, and while his mother sank happily back into her dreams of 17th century life, Jamie stayed firmly in 2018, keeping one eye on the door. Just in case.
Charis lifted the groceries out of the car, and she and Jamie made their way through the gate and around the stone wall to where they’d made camp two nights ago. The blackhouse reconstruction had been a real eye-opener, and even the uncomfortable thought that someone had tried to break into their car had taken up its rightful place in reality; the history of this area was so steeped in treachery, violence and hardship, someone trying their luck with a rented Ford Focus was hardly comparable. And they hadn’t managed it anyway, nor scratched it in their attempt, thankfully.
She and Jamie had returned to their temporary home with enough bacon and bread to feed a small army, and she’d even treated herself to a bottle of white wine, which she’d been looking forward to sipping while the sun went down. It was already late afternoon, and Charis could see clouds gathering once again over the hills to the west; she reckoned they had about twenty minutes to get settled in the dry. The light patter of drops on the shopping bags, a moment before she felt them on her skin, told her she was getting no better at predicting the weather, and with a sigh she amended her evening’s ambitions to sitting in the doorway of the tent, watching the mountains disappear behind a curtain of rain.
Jamie ran ahead, leaping over the soggy patches he already knew by heart; he had taken to rural life as naturally as Charis had taken to single-motherhood, and it was doing him just as much good; he’d hardly needed his asthma inhaler since they’d arrived… Charis groaned as the thought popped into her head; after all that, they’d forgotten to pick up the refill in town. That meant another fight for parking spaces on Monday when it all opened again—
‘Mum!’ Jamie was already running back towards her, his face a mixture of dismay and excitement. ‘Someone’s been in the tent!’
Heart hammering, Charis ran down the slight slope to the sheltered patch where their tent stood, its open front flapping in the wind and the poles almost collapsed. ‘Shit!’ The word was out before she could stop it, but Jamie was too busy picking over their belongings to notice. Charis seized the front of the tent and pulled it upright, flicking rainwater over them both as the nylon snapped into place.
‘Where’s the camera?’ The brand new digital SLR had been the result of three weeks’ overtime and an Amazon gift voucher from her sister, and was her single most expensive possession. ‘Oh hell! Keep looking, Jay.’
They both rummaged among the piles of wet clothing, but the camera was definitely gone, although nothing else appeared to be missing. Miserable once again, almost to the point of tears, Charis started pulling muddy steel pegs out of the ground and letting the tent fall in on itself.
‘Are we going home?’ The disappointment in Jamie’s voice stopped her for a moment; that had been the plan, but what would it achieve?
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I just need to think. No matter what we decide though, we’ll have to go back into town and find a launderette. Assuming that bloody place has such a thing.’ She held up a pair of his faded jeans, now a dark, shiny blue in patches where the rain had soaked them. ‘We can’t wear our stuff like this. And anyway, I don’t like leaving the tent out here now. Not that there’s anything worth nicking in it any more. God! Why didn’t I take the bloody camera with me today?’
‘You couldn’t find it this morning either,’ Jamie pointed out. ‘Maybe it was stolen before?’ He was looking at the pile of green nylon with a little grimace of distaste, mirroring her feelings exactly.
One nasty little act of invasion and their holiday had been spoiled, along with all the good feelings she’d been collecting, storing up for their return to the noisy, stressful life back home. His words hit home, too; if someone had been into the tent before, taken the only thing of value and then returned to do this, it was more than some random destructive act by passers by.
Who could have done it, and more importantly, why? A prickle started at the base of Charis’s skull and she turned her head quickly. There was no-one behind her, but just for a second, she was sure there must have been. Her thoughts flew back to the incident at the blackhouse museum; it now seemed even less likely it had been some kid hoping for a joyride. Someone had seen the car there, knew they were out for the day, and had taken the chance to come here and leave this obvious message.
‘Jay,’ she said suddenly, ‘the person at the museum, messing with the car – d’you think it was the same bloke who took your notebook this morning?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Or you don’t want it to be?’ Her voice was grim.
‘I don’t know! I didn’t see who it was; they were sort of crouching down by the door. And then they were gone. I couldn’t see if they were tall, or what.’
Charis frowned. No-one knew where they were camped; this wasn’t somewhere you just happen to stumble on – she’d been told about it by Suze, who in turn knew of it from a friend who’d camped here for years with the permission of the estate owner. It was a hard place to find, even on Google Maps, and she’d had to get Suze’s friend to write out detailed instructions, which were still safely in her coat pocket.
‘Did you tell him where we were staying?’
‘I don’t know where we’re staying,’ he pointed out. ‘I just told him we were camping on this side of town, but not where.’
Charis peered closely around, and into the hedges behind where the tent had stood, and she could see nothing out of place and no movement. But what had heightened the appeal of a peaceful haven now only served to highlight their vulnerability.
She spoke loudly and clearly, partly to hide her own fear, partly to convey to anyone who might be listening that he hadn’t won. Her voice only shook a little bit.
‘Right. We’ll go into town and get our stuff dried out, and then we’ll find somewhere else to camp. Okay?’
‘Yay, great!’
Jamie helped her pack the rest of their belongings, and together they carried everything back to the car. It was slow going over the muddy ground, but Charis was determined to manage it in one journey; there was no way she was ever going back there again. With Jamie safely in the front seat, she closed the boot and hunted around for some clue. Tyre tracks on the wet mud, or footprints too big to be hers or Jamie’s...
And there they were. Her heart stuttered as she peered at the tracks on the other side of the gateway. She hadn’t really known what she’d been hoping for, unless it was simply proof that she wasn’t over-reacting, but this mess of tyre tracks and sliding footprints said someone had followed her up here, and that now, with the theft of her precious camera, that particular someone had possession of at least one clear picture of her son.
Charis fumbled at the car door and dragged it open, almost falling over herself in her haste. Only when she was in and had locked the door did she register that, though there were tyre tracks, there was no sign of the vehicle that had made them; they were safe. Then again, logic had no place in the blur of blood-freezing panic.
No-one would go to all this trouble just for a couple of hundred pounds worth of camera, so it had to be something to do with Jamie. The image flashed into her mind of a tall man, low voice, grim expression... He was dangerous, anyone could see that, and he had brazenly threatened her boy.
‘Where are we going?’ Jamie wanted to know, as Charis twisted the ignition key with sudden ferocity. She glanced at him briefly, then out of her window towards their abandoned campsite.
‘The police.’
Abergarry Police Station
Passing through the front office as he headed for Bradley’s, Mulholland was thinking over the news of Andy Stein’s latest bit of heel-dragging, and how to present it. His scowl matched his sour thoughts, until he was distracted by the woman arguing with the duty sergeant. At first his interest was aroused by no more than the fact that she was a nice-looking piece – although her mouth could do with some training – but as he reached the door, something she was saying filtered through his mental rehearsal, and he stopped.
‘He wasn’t imagining it,’ she was insisting. ‘He definitely heard something about statues—’
‘I’ll take over here if you like, Nick,’ Mulholland said. ‘Would you like to follow me, Mrs, uh, Miss...?’
‘Boulton. And this is Jamie.’
‘Come this way, Ms Boulton. And hello to you, laddie.’ Mulholland tried on a hearty smile that seemed to fit well enough, and though the boy still looked a bit nervous, he managed to give off waves of barely suppressed delight too, as he gazed around him.
Sergeant Clifford looked relieved to have been let off the hook, and Mulholland could hardly blame him. But at the same time, the thought that the man might have just pushed the woman out into the street again, without alerting himself or Bradley, gave him a little internal shudder.
He waved the two visitors through the doorway ahead of him, then turned back. ‘Nick? Call the super and let him know I’ll be a few minutes late for our meeting. Cheers.’ Let Sergeant Stupid cope with Superintendent Snappy for a bit.
In the interview room, Mulholland gestured to the chairs and took one opposite. ‘I’m sorry to make you go over everything again, Ms Boulton, but I’m sure you’d rather this was done properly.’
‘That bloody copper on the desk didn’t seem to think so,’ the woman said. Her Liverpudlian accent was strong, and her voice was surprisingly low for someone of such slight stature. He decided he could put up with it after all; she was definitely a looker, with her short, spiky dark hair and wide apart blue eyes. And what a great little ass she had in those skinny jeans.
‘Can I take your full name?’
‘Charis—’
‘K-a-r?’
‘No, with a c-h. And one s. Charis Anne Boulton. Anne has an e. And Boulton has a u.’
‘Right. And you, sir?’
‘Jamie.’
‘With a J?’ Mulholland grinned at the woman, but she just looked at him. He cleared his throat. ‘Right. Jamie Boult—’
‘Thorne. With an e.’
Was she taking the piss? But again she had no humour in her eyes. He frowned. ‘He’s not your son?’
‘Yes, he is. Thorne is his father’s name.’
‘Right. Of course. Now, Ms ... may I call you Charis?’ She wasn’t keen, judging by her expression, but he pressed on anyway. ‘Now then, Charis. Start at the beginning, and tell me exactly what you were trying to tell Sergeant Clifford.’
While she talked, he wrote down the key points and kept flicking his gaze from mother to son, checking to see if anything she said surprised the boy. But he seemed in full agreement with everything she was saying; she was telling the truth, at least as he understood it.
‘And what makes you so sure it was this same man who stole your camera?’
‘Well, he didn’t like Jamie snooping around, for a start. And when Jamie wrote down the reg number of the American’s car, he ripped that page out.’ Her eyes glinted with anger despite the evident fear. ‘He must’ve followed us out to the campsite last night, after Jamie overheard the phone call, and taken the camera from the car then. You know, in case Jamie’d taken any pictures of him while he was on the phone. Then once he saw were in town again today, he must have gone back out there to leave a cowardly message, by wrecking our stuff.’
‘I see. Now, in as much detail as possible, I’d like you to describe this man who’s been harassing your little boy.’
His carefully chosen words had the desired effect, and the mother in her rose visibly to the challenge. She closed her eyes to think, then her words sketched an image that made his teeth itch; there could be no doubt about the man she was describing, and that would not make Bradley happy. Not at all.
To give him credit, Bradley sat through Mulholland’s explanations of Stein’s delaying tactics without comment, although it looked as if it was as much as he could do not to slam out of the room and go and find Stein himself. After all this time, they had the money in sight, but because of some so-called ‘screw-up at the bank’ it meant waiting until Monday at least before Stein could speak to an actual person face-to-face. They couldn’t exactly call him a liar, though. No wonder Bradley was twitchy.
Then Mulholland moved on to the reason for his own late arrival, and gradually, as his words filtered through whatever angry fog was clouding the superintendently brain, Bradley frowned. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said the boy heard an American talking to someone on the phone. About statues. Anyway, the bloke this Boulton woman’s pointing the finger at got very antsy about the whole thing, and it seems like Stein has got him involved in this.’
‘This is the man she says stole her camera?’
‘Aye.’
‘Describe him.’
Mulholland shuffled his papers, gave him a you’re not going to like this look, and started to read aloud. ‘Probably late thirties, tall – this lass is only tiny herself, mind, so it’s all relative. Um, fairly well built, but she wouldn’t really call him fat. He has dark hair, and when she saw him this morning he was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt, jeans and black boots. And apparently he said he rides a motorbike.’
Bradley leaned forward, eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’
Mulholland cleared his throat. ‘He was wearing a manky bit of leather around his neck, with two knots tied in it. Oh aye, and his eyes were hazel.’
‘Sod the colour of his eyes! You know damn well who she’s talking about.’
‘Paul Mackenzie. The leather was very old, evidently.’
‘Well he’s been wearing it about twelve years, if memory serves.’
‘Thirteen, sir.’
‘Jesus!’ Bradley rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Odds on he’s the one behind this delay. Screw-up at the bank, like hell! Where are the woman and the boy now?’
‘They’re planning on staying at The Burnside tonight, I believe. Moving on tomorrow.’
‘Right.’ Bradley sounded decisive at last. ‘Bring him in.’
‘Who?’
‘Tyrion Lannister.’ Bradley rolled his eyes. ‘Who do you think? Mackenzie! Get him in here for questioning about the harassment of this child and the theft of the camera. Hopefully, that’ll make Stein think twice about hiring him, and we can get everything back on track.’
Mulholland shook his head, and for the moment, kept his tone polite. ‘Is that wise, sir?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘For starters, to let him know we’re aware of his involvement? It’ll just make him more careful. If we leave him to—’
‘All right!’ Bradley conceded irritably. ‘How the hell did he ever get involved anyway? The man’s poison.’
‘To be fair, sir, you’ve been a thorn in his side for years.’
‘I’d rather be a knife in his sodding throat.’
‘So I gather. The fact remains, though, you’ve got to be careful. With the promotion board coming up, you’ll be watched even more closely than usual. By everyone. Better let me handle things, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘Beats me why you didn’t wait until it was all over to do this.’
‘Because it should have been sorted by now!’ Bradley gathered himself and sighed. ‘Okay, call Stein again. Call his bluff – tell him we’re pulling out of this deal until it’s safe. You don’t have to mention Mackenzie by name; he doesn’t need to know we know the bastard. As you say, it’ll just make him more careful. Just make him aware that the…interested parties, I suppose, are becoming rather too many.’
That was true enough; what had start
ed out as a simple transaction was turning into a three-ring bloody circus. And Mulholland couldn’t help thinking he was looking at one of the chief clowns right now.
‘Just one thing, before you go,’ Bradley said, as Mulholland rose to leave.
‘Aye, sir?’
Bradley stood too, but he still had to look up to meet Mulholland’s eyes. ‘You patronise me one more time, or question my orders, and you’re out on your arse. Got it?’
Mulholland studied him in silence for a moment, noting the glisten of fresh sweat that broke out on the superintendent’s brow. The man was learning. After thirteen years, he was finally coming to understand he’d got a tiger by the tail.
He kept his own voice very quiet. ‘Got it. Sir.’ He held Bradley’s gaze a moment longer, and watched the super’s hand come up and rub his lower chest, as if a nervous heartburn had flared there. Then he smiled, a quick, on-off flash, and left.
Chapter Seven
The hotel didn’t look like much to write home about, from the outside, but once you got in through the large glass doors it was like another world. Charis gazed around her, suddenly unsure. It had seemed like the perfect solution: one night here, then home. Jamie would take some placating, but she’d make it up to him, maybe even get him his phone before his birthday. But The Burnside looked as if it would cost a fortune, and that was something she certainly didn’t have; the loss of her one extravagance, her precious Canon, still made her feel sick. She’d have to check her home insurance when she got back, to see if it was covered, but in the meantime she was going to have to watch her pennies, for sure.
The hotel tariff was tacked high on the wall behind the counter, no doubt deliberately, to bring potential customers in to a point where direct contact with the counter staff was unavoidable. She groaned at what she saw, and the receptionist materialised as if summoned by the sound.
‘Can I help, madam?’