21

Harvey Robertson was a traditionalist when it came to his journalism. No sensationalism, no over-egging a story, no short cuts. No exaggeration. Which is why, Doug thought, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he discovered that the “little B&B” wasn’t so little after all.

He was parked in a small layby just down from the main gate, glancing between his sat-nav and the discreet, tasteful sign nestled amongst the foliage of a perfectly manicured hedge, verifying that he hadn’t made a mistake somewhere.

Behind the sign, the hotel it advertised, Robertson’s Retreat, sat like a king on his throne at the top of a gentle slope of lush green lawn that looked as if it could double for a bowling green.

Who knows, Doug thought, maybe it did. Wouldn’t be the biggest surprise of the day so far.

It was a converted manor house, massive bay windows staring out over the Sound of Sleat and to the jagged horizon of the mainland in the distance. The granite facade was pristine and seemed to glitter in the afternoon light, while the window frames and guttering glowed with the sheen of fresh paint and fastidious care. In the small car park to the right of the building, Doug could see a cluster of high-end saloons, tourers, Range Rovers and what he was sure was a Ferrari neatly parked up in individual bays. At a rough guess, he thought there was more than a million-and-a-half worth of automobiles sitting in the lot.

The other side of the house was dominated by a huge glass sun-room in which Doug could see tables dotted around, making the most of the views. The dining room obviously, offering the spectacular views as a free appetiser or dessert.

With a bemused chuckle, Doug started the engine and bumped his car slowly over the cattle grid set into the tarmac at the gate and crept up the driveway, suddenly aware that his pride and joy – a Mazda RX-8 he’d bought after his previous car was lobotomised by a hired thug with a grudge and a penchant for knives – wasn’t the king of the road he thought it was.

He parked up as far from the main body of cars as he could and killed the engine, suddenly nervous. What the hell was he doing here anyway? He should be back home, chasing the story, no matter what Walter said. Since when was a little thing like seeing someone murdered in front of his eyes going to keep him away from the front page? Was this a test? Had he failed Harvey by quitting the story and coming here?

He jumped out of the car, hoping movement would quieten his thoughts and the images of Greig’s silent scream. Turned and stopped dead when he saw Harvey standing at the main entrance, lounging against one of the sandstone pillars that framed the door and watching Doug with a look of cool amusement in his eyes.

He was greyer than Doug remembered, the hair was thinner and the waist was thicker, but the face hadn’t changed. Round cheeks and a thick jaw hidden behind a dark beard that was flecked through with white. “My Tipp-Ex stains,” Harvey had called them. “Danny DeVito’s grumpy Scottish uncle Harvey”, the reporters had called him back at the Tribune. Looking at him now, Doug couldn’t argue with the comparison, or his own private nickname for Harvey – “Scrooge McFuck”.

Harvey leaned forward, held up a slender walking cane with what looked like a silver handle. “You going to stand there gawping all day, Douglas, or are you going to make an old man come to you?”

“Time it would take you, deadline would be passed and we’d all be in the shit,” he replied, striding forward, hand outstretched. Doug’s slender hand disappeared into the warmth of Harvey’s paw-like grip. Harvey shook vigorously, patting Doug on the shoulder as he did – classic Scottish male shorthand for a hug.

“Good to see you, Harvey,” Doug said.

“Likewise, son,” Harvey replied, his eyes darting over Doug’s face, seeming to read every line and blemish. “How you holding up?”

Good question. “I’m fine, Harvey. Now. Not sure it’s totally sunk in yet…”

The silent scream on Greig’s face.

(Look at me.)

The feel of his blood, sticky, hot, between fingers.

Harvey gave him another tap on the shoulder, breaking him from his thoughts. “Aye, right,” he grunted. “’Mon inside. Esther’s desperate to see you. Then we can have a drink and catch up. Some things are better talked about when you’re not totally sober.”

• • •

Seeing Esther was the second surprise of the day and, after the discovery of the hotel, it was like a kick in the teeth.

Doug remembered her as a vital woman, with hair so black it shone, delicate features, porcelain skin and a figure that had almost made him call her Mrs Robinson the first time they met. Now she sat propped up in a bed, skin a sickly grey, hair bleached white with age and the stress of illness, her features subsiding as if the foundations beneath them were starting to decay.

Which, in a way, they were.

“Douglas,” she said, her pale blue eyes dancing with the old amusement he remembered so well. “Good to see you. You well, son?”

Her hand scrabbled over the sheet for his. He almost flinched away from the suppurating cold when he took it.

“I’m fine, Esther, really,” he said, giving her his best empathetic smile and realising it was Harvey who taught him it in the first place. Make the interviewee trust you, Douglas.

“More importantly, how are you? Harvey told me the doctors say you’re doing better?”

She snorted, the sound of diamond being run across glass. “Aye, it shows, doesn’t it? Good days and bad days, Douglas. The chemo was awful but they think they’ve got all of it now.”

Harvey had filled Doug in on the way up the grand double staircase to the suite of private rooms he called home. Bowel cancer. They had found it a couple of months ago, after she’d started to have stomach pains and noticed blood in the toilet. Tests followed by an operation to remove the tumour, then chemotherapy to destroy anything they may have missed. Now it was a waiting game as she recovered before going back for a follow-up check. It was hanging over both of them, the unspoken axe waiting to fall.

“Well, if there’s anything you need…”

She smiled, patted his hand. It was like being caressed by slivers of ice. “You’re a good ’un Douglas, always were. I’m fine. What I need is for you to take this one to the bar and buy you a drink, give me five minutes’ peace.”

Doug gave a small salute. “Happy to oblige, Esther,” he said, feeling his stomach lurch and his mouth go dry at the thought of more booze.

“You heard the lady, Harvey, buy me a drink. And make it a double.”