The House on the Shore (45 page)

Back at Killilan House, Alistair Grant paced the floor of his library, his features contorted with a mixture of relief
,
shock, and anger.
Anna MacDonald was alive!
His hands shook as he poured a measure of whisky into a glass and took a sip.
The amber liquid dribbled down his chin and onto his silk tie.
Cursing, he yanked off the tie and threw it on the chair.
He glared at the huge portrait of his father that dominated t
he high-ceilinged library.

T
hat morning he’d received another letter from his London bankers.
The threat of foreclosure was now a reality.
Five days remained in which to sign the contract before the bank took possession of the estate.
He snatched up the ornate Louis XV clock off the mantel and hurled it at the painting, causing a
six-inch
tear in the canvas.
The clock fell to the floor, an odd discordant clanging
came
from its chimes.
He
laughed at the irony of it all.

“It’s your fault, you old fool,” he screamed.
“I
wouldn’t be in this mess if you ha
d done as I’d asked and made the estate over to me.
You waited until the bank threatened to foreclose.
Even when I found the way to prevent them, you refused to sign the contract.
You wouldn’t betray the tenants!
Instead, I had to wait until you were nothing more than an empty shell that sits and drools all day long to gain control.
Well, it’s too late.
Your precious family is about to become bankr
upt.
I hope you rot in hell!”

The decanter now empty, he slumped into the chair behind the desk, put his head in his hands
, and wondered what to do next.

Anger and despair fought for control.
With shaking hands, he opened the desk drawer and removed the keys to the
gun cupboard
, turning them over and over in his fingers.
It seemed the irony was endless.
There was no way out, and here he was c
onsidering taking his own life.

Feeling weak and vulnerable, he staggered to his feet, but got no further than the centre of the room when a knock on the library door shattered his self-pity.

“Mr
.
Alistair?
Mr
.
Alistair, I’m sorry to disturb you,” his housekeeper
said
,
open
ing
the door.
“The police are here to see you.”

Alistair lurched toward the door.
Police?
Here?
The terrifying thought that he could be about to be served with an order for repossession hit like a blow from a sledgehammer.
He had to hold his nerve.
He had to!
His whisky-befuddled mind struggled over what to do.

“Show them into the morning room please, Mrs
.
McTavish.
I’ll join them in a moment,” he replied, trying hard not to slur his words.
“
A
nd give them some tea and coffee or whatever they want.”

He waited until the housekeeper
left, then placed
his ear
to
the door and
listened
.
Once
he was sure his visitors were safely ensconced in the morning room
,
he peered into the hallway.
It was empty, but the doo
r to the morning room was ajar.

He
tiptoe
d across
the hall and dashed up the stairs.
S
afel
y
in
his bedroom, he quickly shed his clothes, and took a cold shower, all the while cursing his family’s stupidity.
He gargled with mouthwash and, as a final precaution, liberally
slapped cologne on his cheeks.

If not completely sober, he was certainly more alert.
He lurched back downstairs into the morning room.
Two uniformed policemen sat on the sofa opposite the fireplace.
He straightened his sh
oulders and cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,
officers
,” he said, stepping forward, vigorously shaking
their hands
.
“How can I help you?”

“As you’re probably aware, there’s a woman missing from the vill
age,” the older officer stated.

Alistair looked away hastily before replying, lest the policeman smell the alcohol on his breath.
“So I understand.
I beli
eve her name is Morag McInnes.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Dreadful business.
I don’t see what it has to do with me.
I’ve only met the woman a couple of times.”

“Well, sir, it’s like this.
The mountain rescue team is on its way from Fort William.
The hotel is a bit too public, not to mention cramped, so we were hoping you’d agree to let them make their base here.”

Panic rose in Alistair’s chest.
Play it cool.
Play it cool, he told himself.
“I see.
And that would entail…what
exactly
?”

“They
need somewhere to set up the co
mmunications centre, and
access to a phone line and the like
, n
ot to mention somewhere to house their dogs.
Mr
.
Abercrombie
,
Ewan
,
at the hotel
,
has offered the use of the bunkhouse, should they not find her today, so there should be sufficie
nt accommodation for everyone.”

Alistair leaned
back in his chair and
drummed his fingers on the leather armchair
pretend
ing
to consider their request.
Things were growing infinitely more complicated by the moment.
If he
refused
, it could arouse their suspicion.
I
f he said yes,
having
the police and the mountain rescue team under his feet day
and night would be problematic.

The offi
cer cleared his throat.
“Sir?”

“S
orry, I was thinking.
I have the very place.
There’s a small cottage on the back drive.
My former ghillie lived there.
It’s been empty for a while now, but there’s a phone, and a small
byre that
would be suitable for the dogs.
I’ll arrange for you to collect the key from the estate office.
Now if that is all—
”

“That’s very much appreciated, sir.”
The men stood to leave.
“There’s just one more thing.
If we need to bring in the helicopter, I assume you’ve no objection to it landing
here.
”

“No, I haven’t, but I’d rather it didn’t land on the front lawn.”

“I’ll make a note of that, sir.”

Alistair chewed on his lip as he stood by the window watching the police car drive away.
His legs felt rubbery,
and he almost fainted with relief.
He fe
ll into an overstuffed armchair
and closed his eyes.
As close calls go, that was one of the closer kind.
F
or the time being
at least, he was in the clear.

He was still congratulating himself for handling the matter well, when MacKinnon burst into the room.
“Why have the polic
e been here?
What’s going on?”

“Keep your voice down, man, and close the damned door.”
Alistair hissed.
“I don’t want
Mrs
.
McTavish
getting suspicious.”

“I don’t give a toss about your
housekeeper
.”

Alistair ran a hand through his hair.
He couldn’t
,
wouldn’t allow MacKinnon the upper hand.
“That’s as may be.
However, this is not the right time to discuss
our
business transaction.
I’ll meet you
at Ardtoe bothy in two hours.”

Mac’s fists bunched a
t his sides.
“Don’t you tell—”

“Get out.
If you want your money, you’ll leave now!”

The two men stared at each other in silence, both reluctant to back down.
Finally, Mac lowere
d his gaze and turned to leave.

“If you’re one minute late
,
just one minute, I’ll come looking for you.”
He slammed the door behind him.

Alistair let out a ragged breath and withdrew his shaking hands from his pockets.
He needed time to think,
to formulate a plan before they met again.
Most of all he had to ensure that no blame for this fi
asco could be laid at his door.

An hour and a half later, making sure his housekeeper was out of the way, Alistair slipped out Killilan House and made his way
up the hill towards the bothy.

It was a steep climb to the tumbledown cottage tucked away on the far edge of the estate.
The higher he climbed up the heather-clad hillside, the hotter he became.
He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face.
A red grouse catapulted out of heather, its
telltale
‘go-back, go-back’ calls startling him a
nd other birds in the vicinity.

His father’s ghillie used to bring him here as a
teenager
for the annual deer cull.
They spent
days camping out in the sparsely furnished croft.
He
hated it even then, a
nd nothing had changed now, twenty years later.
The isolated cottage still gave him the creeps.

He
climbed the last few yards,
paus
ing now and then
to catch his breath
.
He
made sure he was early
so as to have an advantage over MacKinnon
.
There
was
no telling how
the thug
would behave, seeing
as
he resented authority of any description
.

Alistair
took out his handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand, and opened the door of the bothy.
It was empty.
B
ack outside
, he squinted
against the sun,
and
scanned the hillside, but there was no sign of the man.
He leaned against the
doorframe
and waited.

Thirty minutes passed.
MacKinnon slunk in
to
the bothy wit
hout explanation or expression.

“You’re late!” Alistair barked.

Mac shrugged.
“It was difficult to get away.
One of the shepherds had a problem with a tractor and asked me to give him a hand
to get the engine started.”

“You still took too long.”

“And I don’t care.
What did the police want?
If it was about those antiques that went missing from the Manse, I had nothing to do with it.”

“For God’s sake!
Isn’t the money I’m paying you enough?”

“I told you, it wasn’t me.”

“Then how… oh, never mind!
The police
weren’t here
about missing antiques.
They came to ask if the mountain rescue team could use the estate as a base for their search.”

“Search?
What search?”
Mac took a drag on his cigarette.

Alistair folded his arms across his chest, ignoring the question.
A long brittle silence ensued.

“I asked you a—”

“I heard you,” Alistair snapped.
“Members of the mountain rescue team are combing the village and
surrounding area as we speak.”

Mac chuckled.
“That’s a relief.
I thought the police had the eye on us.
Instead, it’s some stupid hillwalker who’s taken a wrong turn while h
alfway up
a
bloody mountain.”