by S L Beaumont
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Perhaps there might be something in the box of papers that I’d brought back from Colin’s parents in Edinburgh. It was still sitting where I dumped beside the table in the kitchen and seemed to beckon to me. I sighed and kicked off my trainers. No time like the present.
I spent the next two hours emptying the box and sorting its contents into piles. I jumped up at one point to open a window, as the odor of smoke from the fire that followed the warehouse explosion seemed to have infused the paperwork.
The box contained mainly bank statements. As I lifted them out I realized that they weren’t just for bank accounts owned by L-FLI. There were other companies too. Companies whose names I’d only seen in one other place; on the company chart that Dad had drawn. I recalled John saying the previous day that the police forensic experts had already been through them, but it wouldn’t hurt for me to take a look.
I jumped up and shifted the coffee machine and using a bread knife from the kitchen drawer, levered a brick out of the wall behind it. It was half the size of the other bricks and meant that there was good sized empty space in the wall cavity behind it. I’d discovered it by accident when I was moving my belongings into the kitchen. Inside the wall cavity I’d hidden a cake tin with all of my important documents, passport, spare cash, a credit card and a packet with the information that my father had left in the safety deposit box.
I brought the package to the table and sifted through until I found the company chart that Dad had drawn up. I set it in the center of the table and sorted the papers from the warehouse into piles for each company beside their name on the chart. I grabbed a blank sheet of paper and began trying to trace any large money transfers through the various companies.
After an hour, I was ready to give up. There were gaps between the amounts paid and not showing up as received and even if the date of a transfer did coincide, the amount received was never the same. I threw my pen down in disgust. Who was I kidding? The police had smarter forensic people than me who’d probably already pieced together the money trail.
I decided to concentrate on L-FLI’s parent company, CMEC Limited. I counted twenty-four bank statements for this company going back six years. I worked backwards, trying to trace the deposits and withdrawals, with little success until I reached the first statement dated from around the time of our wedding. The account had been opened with a deposit of £10,000,000 and £5,000,000 had been transferred to L-FLI the following day. I did a double take. I recalled how tight things were for us when we were first married and Colin was setting up the business. Yet it appeared that he not only had a trust fund worth £750,000, but he also had £5 million to play with.
I reached for my iPad before remembering that I no longer owned one. Instead I grabbed my phone, tapped the settings app and enabled mobile data. I hoped I could get a signal out here and sure enough up it popped. I searched the company’s details on line. CMEC was in the export business and Colin was listed as its only Director. Clearly the Companies Office hadn’t caught up on the fact that a dead man was running the company. However, to my surprise, Colin wasn’t listed as the shareholder. Another company was, one that I’d never heard of called Little Boxes Limited.
I searched its details online. Its sole director was none other than Ewan Campbell. I clicked on the shareholding. It was owned by an offshore trust with an unpronounceable name, registered in Guernsey, which meant the end of the road in terms of discovering its ownership. Despite the European Union’s best efforts, it was still nigh on impossible to get behind the walls of that tax haven, but if Colin and Ewan were directors of each company, then it was a good chance that they were among the shareholders too.
The question was, where did they get ten million pounds?
Something tugged at my memory and I sorted through the piles of paper on the small table to find the package with the information that I’d gathered in London. I retrieved the details on Mendelson and ran my finger down the list of shareholders. Ah, there it was, Little Boxes Ltd had a 30% shareholding in a weapons manufacturer who had a contract with the British government. I looked back at the company chart. If Little Boxes Ltd owned 30% of Mendelson, and Tartan Warriors, Scottish Wanderer and Highland Avengers owned 7% each, then the four associated companies between them owned and therefore controlled a majority shareholding in one of the UK’s leading weapons manufacturers.
I sat back, closed my eyes and let out a deep breath. Perhaps I had discovered the source of the explosives found in Colin’s warehouse.
I drew a box above CMEC on Dad’s chart and wrote the words ‘Little Boxes’ in it and joined the two with a solid line. On the opposite side of the page I wrote ‘Mendelson’ and drew lines from each of the companies on the chart which owned shares in it and the percentage.
I returned all of the bank statements to the box that Colin’s father had given me, leaving those documents relating to CMEC and Little Boxes out to store with my dad’s information. I replaced the lid and lugged the box out to the shed, balancing it on one knee while I unlocked the padlock. I didn’t want the burnt smell inside the cottage any longer. The sensory memory it provoked was just too strong. Returning to the kitchen I folded the company structure diagram up and went to push it back into the package with the rest of Dad’s safety deposit box material. I hesitated, remembering that Dad had included a copy of Catriona’s death certificate in the box. I tipped the packet up, emptying its contents onto the table. The photo of a teenaged Colin with the group of boys dressed in fatigues with semi-automatic rifles landed face up. I narrowed my eyes as I scooped it up, studying the boys. Colin was definitely in the center looking up at the older guy whose face was obscured, but I now recognized two more of the group. To Colin’s immediate left was a young Alastair, with his wild hair and sarcastic grin and beside him was Harry the postman, who really looked no different than he did now. I turned it over; the words ‘The Unit’ were written in pen on the back.
I tucked it into my pocket and returned all of the other items to my makeshift wall safe, taking care to replace the brick and the coffee machine.
***
I drove down into the village after dinner and parked beside the harbor opposite the pub. Although the rain had stopped, the heavy dark cloud blanketed the sky. Light and laughter spilled from the pub’s front window, becoming louder and brighter as I pushed open the door and went inside. The usual crowd of locals were in attendance. A replay of the weekend’s football match between Celtic and Aberdeen was playing on the large flat screen on the wall at one end of the room.
Alastair glanced up from the pint he was pulling as I entered, and looked surprised to see me.
“Hey, Jess, what brings you out tonight?”
“I wanted to ask you something,” I replied, hoisting myself up onto a stool at the end of the long wooden bar.
“Okay, gimme a minute,” he said, placing the pint of beer in front of a young guy further down the bar, taking his money and giving him change.
“Can I get ya a drink?” he asked, returning to my end of the bar.
“Half of cider, thanks.”
Alastair shook his head, refusing the note that I held out to pay for my drink.
“So what can I do for ya?” he said, placing the glass in front of me a minute later and leaning on the bar opposite me.
I pulled the photograph from my pocket and slid it across to him.
“I found this today when I was going through some of Colin’s things. I recognized you and Harry in it and I hoped you could tell me who these other guys were.”
A look of discomfort crossed Alastair’s face before being replaced with a grin. “God, that was a long time ago, Jess. We must have been about fifteen at the time. That’s Alwyn, the local mechanic and those two, Mac and Donny, they’re on the boats.”
“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the older man.
Alastair glanced at me before answering. “That’s the Laird,” he said.
&
nbsp; “What? Ewan Campbell?”
“Aye,” he said handing the photo back to me.
“What were you doing, dressed up like that?”
“Probably rabbit shooting. The old Laird, Ewan’s father, used to let us shoot out on the island as long as Ewan was with us.”
I nodded. “Why was Colin with you? Didn’t he live in Edinburgh by then?”
“Aye, but he came down most holidays.”
“Ah, so what did The Unit mean?” I asked, turning the photo over.
Alastair shook his head. “Dunno, Jess. Why the sudden interest? I thought you hated him.”
“Oh, I do. I’m just trying to figure out what made this kid,” I said, tapping my finger on Colin’s face in the photo, “turn into that monster.”
Chapter 37
April 16
After my morning walk over the cliffs with Buffy, I set off on my weekly grocery trip to Ayr. The village store contained all of the essentials, but for anything other than basics, a trip to the larger town was required. My new cooking habit needed feeding, so to speak, and there were a number of ingredients that neither I nor Jamie Oliver could get in the village. I left Buffy asleep in her basket with the promise that I wouldn’t be too long. She raised her head to acknowledge me and went back to sleep. She hated being left in the car while I was in the supermarket, so it was better to leave her at home. She was worn out from our walk, so she wouldn’t even notice that I was gone. I called in at the Gordons’ on the way past to see if there was anything that they needed.
The day was overcast, but it didn’t detract from the beauty of the drive along the coastal road. Sea birds circled over the cliffs and seals played around the rocks. I hardly passed another car. Most traffic used the busier A road, which bypassed the coastal settlements, but I preferred the seaside route which wound its way through a couple of sleepy fishing villages and past several more castle ruins. This part of Ayrshire coast had been well fortified in its day. Forty minutes after I left Strathgarvan, I pulled into the carpark behind Waitrose.
I had my weekly treat of coffee and a cream-filled griddle scone at a local café, using their free Internet to answer an email from Marie, with Rachel, Jimmy and Dave cc’d, who were all clearly worried about my self-imposed isolation. Once again, I went to push back on her overtures to come and visit. I wasn’t ready. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard ready to click send, when a sudden wave of loneliness came over me. Perhaps a visit wouldn’t be so bad. They were my friends after all and didn’t seem to be judging me, like the rest of the world. Without giving myself any more time to dwell, I hit the backspace key erasing my excuses and instead typed, ‘So, do you still fancy a weekend on the Scottish coast?’ I hit send before I could change my mind.
After spending half an hour wandering up and down the aisles of the supermarket, I paid for my purchases and loaded the groceries into my car before making the return journey along the coast road. The rain started about fifteen minutes before I reached the village and was coming down in sheets as I turned into my driveway.
There was no sign of anyone at the Gordons’ cottage as I drove past. I continued on with the wipers working overtime. I rounded the bend at the top of the drive, sensing that something was amiss. I pulled to a stop in front of the shed and switched the engine off. Through the rain, I could see a large dark shape on my front porch. I frowned. I had left Buffy inside, since rain had been forecast, so it couldn’t be her. I opened the door of the car and stepped into the downpour, squinting at the object on the porch. Despite the rain, my instincts screamed caution, so I edged towards the house rather than hurried.
I’d only taken a few steps when I realized that the shape was indeed Buffy. I could have sworn I’d left her locked inside and now the poor girl was crouched on the porch trying to shelter from the rain. I broke into a run for the final few steps. She didn’t move as I approached and as I got closer I stifled a scream. Buffy was lying on her right side across the doormat her back legs hanging off the step, getting wet in the rain. Blood coalesced around a large wound on the left side of her head, just below what was left of her ear and was dripping off the step, turning into a coppery puddle at my feet. Her eyes were open and glassy. I crouched down in front of the step and put my hand on her side. She was still warm, but not breathing.
“No, no, no,” I cried.
The sound of a footstep behind me made me jump up again and as I went to turn in that direction a muffled male voice stopped me. “Don’t turn around, Jess.”
Horrified, I started shaking and raised my hands in the air facing the door of my cottage. “Please don’t shoot.”
Laughter sounded behind me and I braced, waiting for the pain of being shot. “Let the dead rest in peace, Jess, unless you want to join them.”
I started sobbing, streams of salty tears running down my face. I don’t know how long I stood there in the rain with my hands in the air looking down at my poor dead dog. When I finally pulled myself together, I lowered my hands and cautiously turned around. There was no one there. I sank to my knees and buried my face in Buffy’s side and cried.
After several minutes, I stood up and wiped my eyes with the back of my hands and walked over to the shed. I fiddled with my keys trying to unlock the padlock, dropping my keyring twice. When the lock finally clicked open, I entered the shed and I grabbed a shovel and an old blue tarpaulin. I ran back over to Buffy. My tears started again as I covered her with the tarp. I looked around for the best place to bury her and spied an area at the top of the small rise at the edge of my property, where the drywall ended. She would wait there for me to catch up when I let her out for our walk each morning.
I climbed the slope and started digging, so engrossed in what I was doing that I didn’t hear the van pull up, so when a voice behind me called my name, I swung around brandishing the shovel like a weapon and almost snacked it across the head of Harry, the postman, standing there in his red Royal Mail raincoat.
He held up his hands in a gesture of peace and took a step backwards. “Are you okay?” His voice was wary.
My shoulders slumped and I dropped the shovel.
Harry took a tentative step forward taking in my tear-stained face. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Oh, Harry, someone shot my dog and threatened to shoot me.”
Harry looked horrified. “Who?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
Harry held out his hand. “Come on, show me.”
I led him back down the slope to the cottage and lifted the tarp off the front porch, giving a hiccupping sob seeing Buffy lying there.
“Bloody hell.” Harry pulled his phone from his pocket and made a call. “Jess,” he said rejoining me, “Why don’t you go inside and dry off. I’ve got help coming.”
I shook my head and sat down on the step beside Buffy and stroked the soft fur on her side, keeping my eyes away from her ruined head.
The rain had eased to a light mist a few minutes later when a truck came bumping up the driveway at speed and Alastair stepped from it. Harry walked out to meet him and they spoke in low voices for a moment before Alastair came over and helped me to my feet. He pulled me into an awkward bear hug.
“I’m so sorry, lass,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Let us help ya ta bury her.”
I nodded. “I’ve dug a hole.” I gestured towards the fence line.
Alastair bent down and scooped Buffy into his arms. “Bring the tarp, Jess.”
I followed him and Harry back up the slope. Following Alastair’s instructions, I laid the tarp on the ground and he placed Buffy in the center of it, taking care not to drop her. He picked up the shovel and continued digging the hole that I had started. When he determined that it was deep enough, he rested the shovel against the fence and turned to me. “It’s time, Jess.”
I sighed and crouched down beside Buffy, patting her for the last time. “I’m sorry, girl.” I wrapped the tarp around her and with Harry and Alastair’s help
eased her into the hole. Harry picked up the shovel and started filling in the grave. I couldn’t watch that part so I wandered across to my vegetable garden and broke off large handfuls of rosemary. Returning to the grave, I saw that Alastair was fashioning a rustic cross from the fallen twigs of the silver beech tree in the yard.
Harry patted down the mounded earth on top of the grave with the back of the shovel and stepped back. Crying once again, I spread the handfuls of rosemary across the top, while Alastair pushed the cross into the ground at one end.
I stood up and looked at the two men. “Thank you.”
“Come on, let’s get you inside for a nice warm cuppa,” Harry said, leading the way back to my cottage.
After a final look at Buffy’s grave, I followed.
I wasn’t surprised to find my front door unlocked. Someone had to have let Buffy out.
The men took their boots off and hung their wet raincoats on the hooks beside the door and followed me into the kitchen.
“You get ya self into some dry clothes and I’ll put the kettle on,” Alastair said.
I nodded and wandered over to my bedroom closing the door. I was wet to the skin. I pulled off all of my clothes and grabbed a clean towel from a shelf in the wardrobe and dried off as best I could before pulling on clean underwear, jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. I wrapped the towel around my head for a moment to squeeze out the excess water before combing my fingers through my hair to push it back off my face and try to tame it.
When I stepped back into the lounge, I could see Harry and Alastair sitting at the kitchen table, heads together, talking in low voices. They stopped as I entered the room and Alastair jumped up and pulled out a chair for me.