The unforgiven dead, p.14
The Unforgiven Dead, page 14
“And the laird?”
“With his wolves. Seems to spend all day up there with them.”
They reached the end of the corridor and Mrs. MacCrimmon turned sharply to the left into a wide rectangular hallway with a mosaic floor. The tiles snaked around the hallway in knotted patterns, framing creatures at each of the four quadrants—a deer, a peacock, a wildcat, and an eagle. In the middle of the floor, bordered by an intricately decorated circle, was a snarling wolf surrounded by tongues of flame. Light flooded in through a large arched window at the end of the hallway, making the floor shimmer like a page from an illuminated gospel.
Mrs MacCrimmon raised her bony knuckles and rapped on a stout wooden door, the sound echoing around the cavernous space. Without waiting for a reply, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Eleanor Chichester was sprawled on a plush damask chaise longue, framed in the large bay window of Dunbirlinn’s drawing room. She wore a loose plaid shirt, leggings, and faux fur slippers. She clutched a glass of what looked like bourbon, and her mascara had run, making her look like a sad clown. Did she dress for a role? he wondered, following Mrs. MacCrimmon into the room.
“Police to see you, Lady Chichester,” the housekeeper said, tone tiptoeing around the insolent.
“Yes, Mary, I can see that,” she said. “You can go now.”
Mrs MacCrimmon spun on her heel and marched from the room, but not before giving Angus what he interpreted as a warning look.
Eleanor gave him a watery smile. “Constable MacNeil, nice to see you again.”
“Aye, well, sorry it’s not in better circumstances.” He shuffled awkwardly, then remembered his manners. “Lady Chichester, this is DI Sharif from the major investigation team. We’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s okay?”
“Sure. Please, take a seat,” Eleanor said, gesturing to an antique sofa with carved wooden armrests and gold-leaf upholstery. He lowered himself gently onto the sofa, as if afraid he might damage it. The room was well appointed, with a high ceiling, thick cornicing, and a beautiful marble fireplace. Light from the window bounced off gilt-framed paintings, a baroque mirror, and a crystal chandelier, but was swallowed by the wood-panelled walls and doughty furniture. The room, which should have been airy and bright, instead felt dark and claustrophobic, as if the opulent furnishings were sucking up all the light.
Nadia crossed one leg over the other and clasped her knee. “I appreciate this is a difficult time for you, Lady Chichester. Constable MacNeil tells me you were—quite understandably—not up to speaking to us yesterday.”
Eleanor eyed Nadia suspiciously, her high cheekbones lending her a somewhat haughty demeanour. “You don’t expect this kind of thing to happen in the Highlands.”
“No, you don’t,” Nadia agreed.
“Do you have any . . . leads?” She chewed the word, as if suddenly aware how bizarre it sounded.
“It’s early days, but yes, we’re following a number of lines of inquiry.”
Ice clinked as Eleanor sipped her bourbon, hand shaking.
“In the days leading up to the incident, how did Faye seem to you?” Nadia asked. “Was she worried about something? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
Eleanor swung her slippers onto the parquet floor and cradled the glass, elbows on knees, like a hermit crab in its shell. “Myself and Faye tended to stay out of each other’s way.”
“I see. And why was that?”
Eleanor gave Nadia an even stare. “Do you have children, DI Sharif?”
“No.”
Her gaze flicked towards him. “What about you, Angus?”
He shook his head, noting her flawless transition to first-name terms. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?” She cocked an eyebrow. When he didn’t respond, she let out a humourless laugh. “Never wanted children myself. I know women are supposed to crave a family, but I’ve never developed that maternal instinct. Perhaps it’s in the genes: my own mother abandoned me when I was ten—ran off with an insurance salesman, of all things.”
She took another sip of bourbon, then stared down into the glass, as if looking for answers. “I was a failing actress sliding towards obscurity when James rescued me. We met at one of those awful gala dinners rich people host to feel benevolent. I’d partaken liberally of the vodka punch—was making a bit of a fool of myself, truth be told. He held me up, took me outside, fed me coffee to sober me up. He was . . . kind.” She glanced up sharply. “You don’t get many rich, powerful men who are kind, in my experience.”
She gave another tremulous smile. “Anyway, I was flattered. But looking back, I think he took pity on me. James likes broken things. And I was one of his pet projects, just like these damn wolves.”
Angus gave Nadia a sidelong glance. “You were saying, about Faye?” Nadia prompted.
“Faye”—Eleanor shook her head sadly—“was . . . difficult. Sullen, uncommunicative, sarcastic. Oh, at first I went out of my way to ingratiate myself with her. I had this naive vision of us becoming close. She was going to be the daughter I never had.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “I even tried to take an interest in her stupid horses, despite being allergic to the fuckers. But Faye didn’t give me a chance. As far as she was concerned, I was a gold-digging whore and nothing I said or did would change her mind. In the end, we came to an agreement to be cordial around James.”
“And he never realized?” Nadia asked.
Angus recalled how defensive Chichester had been when he suggested his wife and daughter were at loggerheads. Perhaps, on some level, the laird knew but didn’t want to admit it. So Chichester had deceived himself into believing everything was okay when it wasn’t. Just as he had.
“We all wear masks, don’t you think, DI Sharif? Being able to hide our true feelings is the mark of a civilized society. What would happen if we told people exactly what we thought of them? Anarchy, that’s what.”
“How do we know you’re not wearing a mask now?”
She fixed Nadia with a hard glare. “You don’t.”
Nadia faked a smile then reached into her pocket and took out her phone. She tapped the screen and brought up a picture of the clay corpse.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” she asked, holding out the phone for Eleanor to see.
Her eyes barely looked at the picture before she shook her head. “Nope. Why do you ask?”
Nadia said nothing, sliding her phone back into her pocket.
Eleanor’s eyes had suddenly become glassy. Angus recalled how distraught she’d been when Chichester had told her about Faye’s death. He cleared his throat. “We’re sorry, Lady Chichester. I realize this is difficult.”
She sniffed, as if annoyed to reveal a crack in her mask. “James loved that girl more than anything. I fear the news will destroy him. He’s not well, you know?”
“The laird is ill?”
“He has cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea—”
“Well, you wouldn’t; he hasn’t told anyone.”
He pictured the laird on their first meeting, effortlessly suave and brimming with vim and vigour. “He seems in robust health.”
“Perhaps, but every day I wake up worried this will be our last together. You see, despite what my late stepdaughter believed, I don’t care about his money. All this”—she raised her glass to the opulent surroundings—“means nothing to me. I’d trade it all in an instant if I knew James and I could live another twenty years together.”
Eleanor’s eyes welled up, but were they real or fake tears? he wondered.
“What’s the laird’s prognosis?”
“He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer not long after we started dating. The doctors said it was well advanced—distant is the word they use, meaning it had spread to other organs. They told him there was no chance the disease would go into remission. He was given twelve to eighteen months, tops.”
She shot him a watery gaze. “That was ten years ago.”
Angus glanced at Nadia, baffled.
Eleanor’s chin began to wobble. “You’ve no idea. It’s awful—waking up each day and not knowing. At first James withdrew into himself, but as the days and weeks passed and he was still okay, he became his old self again. A better self, even. I’ve tried to make an appointment for him, but he simply refuses to see any more quacks, as he calls them. I think James believes if he goes back to the doctors, his health will fail. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
She shook her head and let out a sigh that rippled down her whole body. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re here to talk about Faye, I know. But, really, there’s not much I can tell you. The girl simply wouldn’t let me in.”
“What about boyfriends?” Nadia asked. “I know you said you weren’t close, but did you see her with anyone?”
Eleanor nodded slowly to herself, again cupping the glass. “There was an incident on Friday evening.”
Angus narrowed his eyes. “Friday evening? Why didn’t you mention this before?”
Eleanor’s shoulders sagged. “To be honest, I’d forgotten all about it until now.”
“That’s okay,” Nadia said. “What happened?”
“Well, after dinner, James dismissed Mrs. MacCrimmon for the evening, so I was forced to venture down to the wine cellar myself. I was passing close by the pantry when I heard raised voices. I glanced through the door and saw Faye arguing with that brute of a ghillie—”
“Ewan Hunter?” Angus blurted out.
“Hunter, yeah, that’s the guy. So here’s the thing, Angus. I saw him grab Faye and try to kiss her. I say ‘try’ because Faye dodged out of his way. Then she slapped him.”
She smiled faintly, and when she next spoke there was a note of pride in her voice. “Caught him a beaut.”
Chapter 20
Nadia thudded the side of her fist against the door of Ewan Hunter’s cottage, a proper police officer’s knock. Nothing stirred inside. She pushed open the letter box and brought her mouth to the gap.
“Ewan Hunter, it’s the police! Open up!”
After the state Ewan had been in the previous night, Angus was surprised the ghillie was still breathing, let alone up and about.
“His jeep’s gone,” he said. “Come on, let’s ask after him at the stables.”
Nadia gave the door a last, frustrated rap, then turned away. They marched around the side of the building, then across the courtyard with its ornate fountain. Nadia, having already updated Crowley on what Eleanor had witnessed, took out her phone and placed another call.
“He’s not home, Ruthven,” she said, without preamble.
Angus could not hear the other side of the conversation, but he saw Nadia nodding along.
“Aye, will do. If anyone’s seen him, I’ll let you know.”
She cut the call and glanced at him. “Tell me about Ewan Hunter, Angus.”
“I’ve known him my whole life. Coached him shinty when he was a boy, then we played on the same team up until a couple of years ago. He’s a nice lad at heart, but shy, socially awkward. He left school at sixteen, although he was clever enough, always had his head buried in a book. He was at college in Inverness for a while, some game management course, but he packed it in before graduating. Not that he really had much to learn. His dad was the ghillie at Kilcreggan for decades, and what John Hunter didn’t know about wildlife management wasn’t worth knowing. Ewan was following in his father’s footsteps.”
“You say he was following in his dad’s footsteps—what happened?”
Angus let out a long sigh. “Eighteen months ago John Hunter took a heart attack while out deer stalking. Ewan was with him. He watched him die. After that he hit the bottle hard. Started winding people up, getting in fights. I arrested him a few months back. Caught him beating up his mum’s new boyfriend outside a pub in Silvaig. Gave the guy a real pasting. He was lucky—got off with a fine and community service. It’s fair to say we’ve not been on such good terms since then.”
“So he has a temper.”
“He was drunk.” He glanced at her and shrugged. “I know, that’s no excuse. To be honest, I was surprised he and Faye were friends.”
“Why?”
“They just . . . come from very different worlds.”
“So did we.”
They walked in strained silence into the stable block. “Nadia, I don’t think Ewan is capable of murder, I really don’t.”
“We’re all capable given the right circumstances—isn’t that what you said to Crowley last night?”
Had he really said that?
“Fair point,” he muttered. “I suppose I don’t want it to be him.”
“Christ, Angus! We’re a long way from that yet. We have a witness—one I don’t trust, incidentally—who says she saw Faye slap Ewan. That’s it. We need to speak to him. He could have a pure belter of an alibi.”
A faint smile flitted across his face.
“Pure belter? Don’t get all technical on me, Nadia.”
She grinned at him as they marched past the first set of gleaming mahogany-panelled stalls. Nadia paused at one of the doors and glanced in at the white horse they had found yesterday at the commune. After being checked over by the vet, the decision had been taken to stable her at Dunbirlinn until her owners were found. Angus knew that was a futile task. This was Bessie. She’d responded when he’d said the phrase Faye had used to calm her down. Somehow her coat had turned white overnight.
The horse plodded over to the door and let Nadia stroke her neck.
“Who knew you had a way with horses?” Nadia said. “You said something to her, didn’t you? What was it?”
“Ach, nothing,” he croaked. “An old Comanche trick, that’s all.”
Footsteps at the far end of the stable saved him from further interrogation. They turned as a figure pushing a wheelbarrow appeared from the tack room. The person let out a startled cry.
In the dim light, it took Angus a second to recognise Nualla Abbot, his friend Grant’s wife. She wore muddy Wellington boots and a man’s waxproof jacket, her long hair tucked under a peaked cap. But even dressed in man’s clothing she couldn’t hide her beauty. Today, though, her eyes looked red-rimmed and tired.
“Hi, Nualla,” he said. “Sorry to creep up on you.”
Nualla tucked a stray lock of dark hair under her cap. “It’s okay, Angus. I’ve been a nervous wreck recently.”
“The baby keeping you up?”
“God, aye! It gets better, right?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he replied.
Nualla winced slightly, as if aware she’d put her foot in it: she and Ash were friends, so it seemed clear his wife had discussed their problems conceiving.
“This is my colleague, DI Sharif,” he said. “We’re looking for Ewan Hunter—have you seen him this morning?”
“Aye, saw him a couple of hours ago heading in the direction of the clootie tree. I think he sets snares in the woods down there.”
“Cheers, Nualla, we’ll go and check. He’s probably sleeping off a hangover somewhere, though. Which reminds me—how’s Grant’s head this morning?”
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sore, Angus. Actually, I’d better get back before Rosie needs another feed.” She propped the wheelbarrow up against one of the stalls. “Tell your missus to pay us a visit, eh?”
“Aye, will do.”
She flashed Nadia a tired smile, then turned and walked towards the rear exit.
“Angus,” Nadia said. “What’s a clootie tree?”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
The gabbling stream sounded like old women arguing. A dipper flitted low across the torrent and perched on a moss-covered rock. The water gushed down towards the sea, swollen by melting snow. He remembered paddling in this stream when he was a child, a bandy net in his hand, his mother lounging on the bank wearing a wide-brimmed hat as he tried, unsuccessfully, to net small trout. That hat. Gathering dust in the attic now, along with the rest of her clothes. Would he ever go up there and get rid of her stuff?
He drew in a long breath, picking out the scents of loamy soil, rotten leaves, and something sickly sweet, as if a dead sheep were decomposing somewhere nearby. The snow had by now turned to mush and his feet made a horrible sucking sound as he trampled the husks of conkers, acorns, and beechnuts into the claggy mud. He thought of Faye’s caved-in skull and felt his stomach twist.
The path along the bank of the stream narrowed, fringed on either side by bramble and blackthorn thickets, still but for the odd darting shadow of small birds. Soon, though, the path opened out into a large clearing, about fifty yards in circumference, covered in patches of snow.
The clootie tree stood on its own, as if the other trees were scared to go near it. An ancient, gnarled ash, it clawed from the earth like the hand of an old woman at the point where two smaller burns gushed down the hillside to join the larger stream. Strips of colourful rags hung limp from the tree’s branches like flayed skin.
He felt a shiver course through his whole body as he approached the tree. Nadia reached up and traced her fingers across the rags. “What is this?”
Angus had a sudden visceral image of the branches twisting around her arm, then curling around her body and pulling her towards a knotted maw in its trunk. He resisted the urge to yank her away.
It’s only a tree, you eejit!
He stepped up beside her. “It’s known as a clootie tree. According to Gills, this has been a place of pilgrimage for centuries, millennia even. In pre-Christian times, votive offerings were made to local deities. These beliefs were then absorbed by Christianity, only instead of water sprites and goddesses, they honoured saints.”
He looked up at the fleshy strips of cloth. “These rags are linked to an ancient healing ritual. You’re supposed to dip one of these cloots in the sacred well and then tie it to the tree. As the rag disintegrates, your ailment fades.”
