The unforgiven dead, p.13
The Unforgiven Dead, page 13
She slammed the door shut and climbed into the driver’s seat. The car coughed and spluttered, the engine cold, but after a couple of tries it started. How many more winters would the Clio last? Would it even last this winter? She’d lost a couple of clients last week, and although Angus made a decent wage, money was tight, what with the fees for his father’s care home. Fewer young ones wanted to learn the clarsach these days. Traditional music was fighting for survival. Gigs were still relatively popular, though. She’d heard the Cach Mòr Ceilidh Band was after a clarsach player for a European tour in the New Year, but the hours were tough and she’d be away from home for weeks.
You might be pregnant by then, anyway.
The thought slipped into her head unbidden, carrying with it the usual anxiety. She’d been trying—and failing—not to think about the IVF. Dr. Morrow had sounded hopeful, hadn’t she? There was nothing defective in their gametes. The procedure should work. Although it should have worked on their previous attempts, too. And they should have been able to conceive without any damn procedure at all. Sometimes it felt as if the universe couldn’t let her be happy.
Sheep nibbled at grassy stalks along the verge of the single-track road, and appeared reluctant to move out of the way to let her past. She recognised their obstinacy—this was their home after all. She edged around a gimlet-eyed ewe and her six-month-old lamb.
No, we’ll muddle by, she thought, although it would help if Angus went for a promotion. He’d been a constable when they met eight years ago and had seemed ambitious. That was one of the things she’d liked about him, one of the reasons she’d reluctantly jettisoned her own dream of going to the Royal Conservatoire. She thought he’d at least be a sergeant by now. She couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned. She could still hear Granny Beag scolding her: “Men always let you down, Ashleigh. Go after what you want, but dinnae expect any help from them lot.” Granny Beag didn’t understand that was exactly what she was doing. Building a life in the Highlands with Angus, starting a family, that was what she wanted more than anything. Did that make her a bad feminist? No, it fucking didn’t!
She shook the thought from her head and concentrated on the road. It was slippy from the recent snowfall. Speed and icy roads could lead to tragedy—she knew that better than most. When she reached the village, Ash found a new hazard.
“Jeezo!”
The area surrounding the hall, stretching back down the road past the Glenruig Inn, was swarming with press. Outside, broadcasting units emblazoned with logos for the BBC, STV, and Sky News were pulled up on the verge. Wires snaked from them like entrails as techs in combat trousers fiddled with equipment and people with clipboards flitted around like hummingbirds. She recognised a few reporters from the national news, their smart clothes setting them apart from the rest of the crew. Malcolm Gladstone, the BBC correspondent, was doing a piece to camera in front of Agnes and Muriel. The cows watched the reporter, chewing sullenly.
“I know how you feel,” Ash told the cows as she trundled the Clio through the scrum.
Moira Anderson and the so-called beautician Geraldine MacAuley sat on deck chairs outside the shop, watching the goings-on with greedy eyes. Ash waved and faked them a smile as she drove past. Once out of the village, she flicked on the stereo, but rather than listen to the radio, she slid in a CD—Karine Polwart’s Faultlines. The title of the album seemed appropriate somehow. Didn’t fault lines run through everything? She recalled an old geography teacher, Mr. Law, explaining how the Highlands was separated from the rest of Scotland by something called the Highland Boundary Fault. He’d described a schism in the earth that tore across the country, from Arran in the west to Stonehaven in the east. As she grew older, Ash realized this rift wasn’t only topographical. To the urbanites of the Lowlands, Highlanders were callow kilt-wearing haggis-munchers. The stereotype persisted. Even after devolution, the Highland voice was ignored, or became fodder for lazy comedy sketches. These attitudes were insidious—they enabled the continued exploitation of the Highlands. Ach, maybe Granny Beag was right. Perhaps she needed to do more than stand on the sidelines shouting.
The music kept her mind off this morning’s visit, but as she neared Kintail House, the old black anxiety set in. Her stomach was churning by the time she reached the road entrance that led to the house, almost hidden now by encroaching rhododendrons. The Clio’s suspension protested as she juddered along the potholed track. Great Caledonian pines loomed around her. She remembered walking in the woods as a girl and finding a red squirrel’s drey. Every day she’d visited, until the squirrel became comfortable with her. She recalled the squirrel’s intelligent eyes and tufted ears that reminded her of a mad professor. Perhaps the squirrel’s offspring were still here, scurrying through the branches like streaks of fire. It was a comforting thought, and by the time the old hunting lodge came into view, she was smiling.
She pulled up in the small visitors car park, killed the engine, and sat for a moment contemplating the building where she’d spent the best part of her childhood. No, she thought, not the best part—the worst part. Her childhood had been split in two, pre–the Accident and post–the Accident. Her dim memories of those early years were Edenic: the bright flowers in their garden, a vast blue sky, and a house by the sea; her mother’s laughter; her dad’s kind, smiling eyes, the scratch of his beard on her cheek. Then all that colour had drained away and she was brought here. Back then, the house had seemed like a scary mansion out of a horror film, but now she could appreciate its charm. Aye, it was a wee bit neglected—the window frames needed painting, and some of the wooden fasciae were rotting—but it was a well-proportioned imposing building, with a great outlook over a sweeping lawn down to a small lochan.
She climbed out of the Clio. The lawn itself was well tended, but the grounds needed some TLC. The borders were overgrown and the hedges needed a trim. Weeds sprouted between cracks in the paved area that the warden, Mrs. Gillies, used to refer to as “the patio.” She could still hear Keira mocking the warden’s posh accent.
Ash’s smile faltered. Mrs. Gillies was dead; she’d read her obituary in the West Highland Mail a few years back. She wondered what had become of Keira. She hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from the orphanage after Granny Beag had adopted her. She’d wanted to bury that part of her life, yet here she was exhuming it.
The knot in her stomach tightened as she unclipped the clarsach from the back seat and carried it towards the big arched doorway. Inside, the lobby was dim and somewhat shabby, the tartan carpet threadbare. The same dull landscape paintings hung from the walls, although new potted plants wilted in a corner. The reception desk was scored and worn, smaller than she remembered.
Ash closed her eyes and took a deep breath, sucking in the lingering scent of boiled meat and vegetables, combined with a mustiness that she would always associate with this place. A thousand images from her childhood danced in her head, each one too flimsy to grasp. She opened her eyes and saw a woman emerge from the office behind reception. Maureen MacCluskie was in her sixties now, but she still had the mullet of an eighties footballer and the arms of a shot-putter. Big Mo, they used to call her.
“Well, well, the One-Girl Wrecking Ball has returned.”
Ash gave a sheepish smile. “Hello, Mrs. MacCluskie.”
“Och! You’re not a resident anymore, pet. You can call me Mo.”
She waddled out from behind the desk and took Ash by the shoulders. Mo’s big thick-fingered hands felt warm and clammy, even through her coat.
“You’re looking well, Ashleigh. A bit scrawny, but all in all not too bad.”
“And you haven’t aged a day,” she replied, truthfully. Perhaps she was stuck in the same time warp as her hairstyle.
Big Mo grinned, displaying a mouth full of fillings. Ash wondered if she still kept a hoard of sweets behind reception.
“Come on, they’re waiting for you in the glasshouse,” Big Mo said.
She led the way through the lodge, whistling tunelessly through her teeth, an early warning sign that they’d been grateful for back in the day. Ash’s eyes darted around, taking in the familiar furniture, gaudy paintings, the staircase to the dorms that creaked on the eighth step from the top, as anyone who sneaked out in the middle of the night knew.
“It’s kind of you giving up your Sunday for this,” Big Mo said.
“Ach! What else would I be doing?”
“I can think of a million things I’d rather be doing,” Mo said. “How’s Granny Beag keeping?”
“You know what she’s like, thrawn as ever.”
Big Mo gave a black-toothed smile. “I hear you’re married?”
“Aye, five years now.”
Mo stopped outside the door that led to the glasshouse. A laminated sign stuck to the door read “Music Therapy.”
“Married to a man of the law, no less?” Mo smiled. “If someone had told me seventeen years ago you’d end up snagging a policeman, I’d never have believed them.”
Ash contorted her features into a smile. She glanced through the window and saw six or seven youths, ranging in age from about thirteen to sixteen.
“Your students await. Good luck, pet.”
Big Mo waddled away, whistling. Ash scowled at her back. “Snagged a policeman,” she muttered to herself. “Fuck off!”
She took a second to compose herself, then turned and pushed open the door of the glasshouse. The heat hit her immediately. Two boys were wrestling playfully on the floor, surrounded by lofty plants and ferns. The others were seated on chairs in the centre of the glasshouse.
Ash was used to playing to large audiences, and had no fear of public speaking, but in front of this group of kids she had to force confidence into her voice.
“Okay, if you two could stop killing each other and take a seat, that would be great.”
The boys disentangled themselves, the bigger one red-faced and grinning. He was a sleekit youth of about fourteen, with acne on his cheeks and a few wispy hairs on his chin. She turned and noticed a painfully thin girl with dyed purple hair and a nose ring scowling at the boys.
She settled herself onto a chair and smiled at the girl. “Okay, so, my name is Ash,” she started. “Like you, I was a resident here. That was a long time ago, but the cooking hasn’t improved much judging by the smell.”
The girl with the nose ring smiled encouragement, but the rest of the children were sullen.
“So,” Ash continued, “can any of you play an instrument?”
“Naw, but you can play with my instrument any day,” the acne-faced boy said. He nudged his pal and they chortled like hyenas.
“Grow up, Shuggie!” the nose-ring girl snarled.
“Bite me, Lilly!” he leered, grabbing his crotch.
Shuggie reminded her of boys who’d pawed at her when she’d first arrived here, twelve and still in shock from the Accident that had killed her parents. She’d been confused, angry, vulnerable, and they’d taken advantage. But then she’d stabbed Joshua with a fork after he’d felt her up in the dinner hall. They didn’t bother her after that. Now, seventeen years later, watching these spotty youths laugh at this lassie, her anger returned.
“That’s enough!”
Her voice was like a whip and the boys fell instantly silent. She glared at the troublemaker. He folded his arms and stared back at her, an insolent scowl on his face.
“Shuggie, is it?” she said. “Bet you think you’re the big man around here, aye?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug, chin jutting out belligerently.
“I knew boys like you when I lived here. Bullies. Cowards.” Shuggie’s glare faltered under her intense stare. He looked away and Ash savoured the small victory. “It didn’t work out well for them on the outside, Hugh,” she continued, intentionally using the less colloquial form of his name. “Lilly’s right, you need to grow up. Fast.”
Her warning sucked the heat from the room. Everyone was suddenly very interested in the tiled floor. Everyone but Lilly, who smiled at Ash in awestruck admiration.
“Look,” Ash said, softening her tone, “I know it’s not easy living here. When I first arrived, they christened me the One-Girl Wrecking Ball because I liked to smash stuff up. Angry wee thing, I was. But then I met a wonderful lady.” Her fingers tapped the neck of the clarsach. “She taught me to play this, and many other things besides. I wouldn’t be here today without her. I’d be in Cornton Vale. Or dead.”
Heads slowly lifted. She knew she had their attention now. She strummed a few notes on the clarsach.
“Music kept me sane in here,” she said, almost to herself. “It stopped me destroying things. Stopped me destroying myself.”
She smiled, her eyes scanning the youthful faces in front of her. Poor kids who’d been dealt a shitty hand, she reminded herself. Even Shuggie.
“Right, who wants a go first?”
Chapter 19
Angus sat in the mortuary car park, knuckles turning white as he squeezed the Land Rover’s steering wheel. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Faye sitting in the back seat, which was normally reserved for criminals, watching him curiously. She pulled up the collar of her tweed riding jacket and shivered.
“Well, that was fucking horrible,” she said. “When I came to Scotland at the start of the summer, I never thought I’d end up with a ringside seat at my own autopsy.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re sorry. You wish you’d done more.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Well, find my killer, of course.”
“That would be easier if you told me who that was.”
Her laughter filled the cab, a fraction off-key.
“You know it doesn’t work like that, Constable MacNeil. We’re not even real.”
“We?”
“I’ve met them, you know? The burned guy, the woman, the little boy.” She gave him a thin smile. “They say your fingernails keep growing after death, so I got Barbara to paint mine.” She wiggled her fingers at him in the mirror. “What d’ya think? Black seemed fitting.”
He ground his teeth.
Faye’s smile faltered. “They need answers too, Constable.”
“Then tell me! Tell me who did this to you? Who was it? Who was dressed as the Dark One?”
“How can I, if I’m not real?”
He spun round, but Faye was gone.
“Christ’s sake,” he muttered, turning back to face the front. At the entrance to the mortuary Nadia was on her mobile, no doubt talking to Ruthven Crowley, filling him in on all the gruesome details. He wanted nothing more to do with the investigation, yet his brain churned over the details of the autopsy. Who would have access to deer sinew and the butchery skills to extract it? A stalker like Ewan, maybe? Although anyone with access to YouTube could learn how to do it. The more relevant question was why use sinew in the first place? And why put Faye’s head underwater after she was already dead?
Suddenly the police radio crackled into life and he heard the rough-edged voice of Marion Muirhead, M&M, as she was affectionately known.
“Control tae all units. We’ve a report of dogs attacking sheep up at old Rankin’s croft. Can anyone attend?”
Angus ignored the request, hoping a colleague would pick it up, which they duly did.
Although he’d found Faye’s body on the seashore, her top half had been soaked in fresh water. He already suspected this was a deposition spot—the lack of footprints suggested as much—so she must have been killed near a loch, river, or burn. But where? If there was one thing the Highlands didn’t lack, it was water.
He watched Nadia end her call and pick her way through slushy deposits of snow towards the Land Rover. She climbed in beside him, bringing a blast of cold air with her.
“Who were you talking to?”
He stared at her for a long beat. “No one.”
“First sign of madness, talking to yourself. Or is it hairy palms, I can never remember. . . .”
“Eh? Nah, I mean, it was Control, looking for a unit to attend some sheep-related incident.”
She cocked an eyebrow.
“I know,” he said, firing up the engine, “cliché or what? Right, where to now?”
“Crowley wants us to speak to Eleanor Chichester. Ryan has already pulled the CCTV from Dunbirlinn Castle and gone through it. Faye left the castle just before ten, and nobody else went out after, so that effectively rules Lady Chichester out as a suspect, but we need to talk to her anyway.”
“Mrs MacCrimmon told me yesterday that Eleanor and Faye hated each other. Maybe we shouldn’t dismiss her entirely?”
“Fair point. There might be another way out of the castle, not covered by CCTV, a secret tunnel or something.”
“Aye, or maybe you’ve read too much Agatha Christie.”
Mrs MacCrimmon greeted them at Dunbirlinn, her expression as cold as that of the stag heads that sprouted from the wood-panelled walls. “Lady Chichester is waiting for you in the drawing room. Follow me please.”
He felt the eyes of Dòmhnall MacRuari, the Druid, following him from his gilt-framed portrait. The chieftain’s face was lined and cruel, his mouth a perpetual scowl. It was the eyes, though, that were really disconcerting. Even centuries after the portrait was painted, his dark orbs glinted with a strange, malignant power.
Angus fell into step behind Mrs. MacCrimmon. Her heels beat a staccato rhythm on the wooden floor as she led them down a draughty corridor.
“How’s Ewan?” he asked the housekeeper in Gaelic.
Mrs MacCrimmon glanced at him over her shoulder. “Hungover, no doubt.”
