Chapter 2

Drumbreck, a scattered hamlet strung out around a sheltered inlet near the estuary of the River Cree, just north of Wigtown, was looking as slickly perfect as a picture postcard this morning. The tide was in; a pair of swans, exuding majestic indifference, sailed round the pontoons of the marina between the expensive yachts and dinky little boats which jostled and clinked as they rode their moorings, glossy paintwork shimmering in sun-sparkles from the waves, while a school of Mirror dinghies was circling round an instructor in an inflatable with an outboard motor. It looked stage-managed, an advertisement shoot, perhaps, for Your Holiday Paradise.

    The houses too, tucked round the margin of the bay or on the rising ground which sheltered it, were all trim and freshly painted, even if a number of them showed the signs of being currently unoccupied: no car outside, half-lowered blinds, shutters closed on downstairs windows. By this evening, though, with a half-term holiday week ahead, it was a safe bet that the 464s would soon be arriving and this select little enclave would again leap into active social life which would become more and more frenetically social as the summer approached.

    Within easy striking distance of Glasgow, Drumbreck was much favoured by businessmen keen to adopt the sport once described as standing under a cold shower tearing up fivers. Not all of them, perhaps, were as keen on the activities which took place on the heaving deck as they were on those which went on after the sun had sunk below the yardarm, but if seasickness, along with a degree of terror, was the price of acceptance in Drumbreck society, then it must be paid.

    The Yacht Club by the marina, once a mere wooden shack for occasional sailors, had been transformed by a major fund-raising drive four years ago into a smart social centre with a swimming-pool, gym and squash courts.

    It all drove up the property prices, so that by now almost none of the houses, whether substantial villas, with a bit of ground, or two-bedroom cottages, were owned by families native to the area. And it wasn’t surprising, when Drumbreck was looking as it was this morning, with glinting water covering what lay beneath: at low tide, the boats now floating so jauntily would be stranded on the mudflats below.

    A Land Rover Discovery appeared, turning cautiously into the narrow road round the bay then pulling up in a parking area outside a pretty cottage set above the road, painted the colour of clotted cream with bright green paintwork, and with a steep flight of steps leading up to it through a terraced garden. A buxom blonde, in jeans and a green camisole top revealing ‘invisible’ plastic bra straps, jumped out and went round to open up the back. It was packed with cases, boxes and Marks and Spencer carrier bags, and she stood back, hands on curvaceous hips, looking from it to the flight of steps with some distaste. A small child, strapped into his safety-seat, began a monotonous chant, ‘Want out! Mummee, Mummee, want out!’

    Her only response was an impatient sigh. Groping in her Prada bag for house keys, she prepared to embark on her unappealing task of haulage – no fun at all in this sultry heat. She was sweating already, just looking at what she had to do. First, though, she turned to look along the shore road towards the marina, shading her eyes against the glare from the water.

    The nearest house was a charmless Victorian monstrosity, large, sprawling and run-down, an eyesore in smart Drumbreck. The litter of diseased timbers, discarded plasterboard and chipped sanitary-ware in the yard to one side suggested a renovation project, but the way the grass had grown up round about hinted at slow progress. It had a large paddock to one side where a tall man in a blue-checked shirt and moleskin trousers seemed to be working a curiously small flock of sheep with a black-and-white collie.

    The woman’s face brightened. Taking a few steps along the road, she called, ‘Niall! Niall!’

    Niall Murdoch looked round. ‘Oh, Kim,’ he said, without marked enthusiasm. ‘You’re back.’ He had very dark hair, falling forward at the moment in a comma on his brow, and with his strong features and deep brown eyes, he was a good-looking man; though there were lines about his mouth that suggested temper, they gave him a sort of edgy charm. He was looking sullen at the moment but his brooding expression could, with a certain generosity of spirit, be considered Byronic.

    Kim’s nature, when it came to men, was generous to a fault. She wasn’t easily discouraged, either. Ignoring the complaints from inside the car, becoming more insistent, she swayed along the road to lean over the dry-stone dyke separating the paddock from the road.

    ‘Yes, that’s me just back to open up the house.’ Her Glasgow accent suggested that it had been only recently refined. ‘Here, it’s great to see you! Like last summer, all over again.’ Her smile was an invitation.

    ‘Yes, well,’ Niall said flatly, then added, ‘Adrian coming too?’ He spoke without enthusiasm. Adrian McConnell was a sardonic, smart-ass accountant he’d fallen out with over the extension to the marina years ago and the man never lost the opportunity to put the boot in. Truth to tell, his own ill-advised response to Kim’s overtures last year probably had more to do with private revenge than anything else, and it didn’t compensate for her personality which, once the novelty was over, affected him like nails scraping on a blackboard.

    ‘Not till tomorrow, with Kelly and Jason for the half-term week.’ She pushed back her hair and gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I’m all by my wee self tonight.’ Then she added, with an unenthusiastic glance towards the car, ‘Well, apart from him, unfortunately.’ She gestured towards the child confined in the car, whose protests were starting to sound tearful. ‘He’s such a crabby little sod.’

    ‘Yes. Look, Kim, I’m sorry – I’ve got to get on. It’s the trials tomorrow, and this bloody dog doesn’t seem to know its business.’

    Kim gave a throaty gurgle. ‘Oh, Niall, you never learn, do you! Glutton for punishment!’ she giggled. ‘But don’t you worry, pet, I’ll be there, cheering you on. I never miss it – I always think the trials are the proper start to a Drumbreck summer. Come here and I’ll give you a big hug, just for luck.’

    Niall, with resistance in every line of his body, submitted. Kim embraced him, then patted his cheek.

    ‘Well, I suppose I’ll need to get on with heaving all this stuff up into the cottage. It’s so hot, though – really sticky!’ She looked at him hopefully, then, as no offer of help was forthcoming, said, ‘You know what? The marina should be hiring out porters. There’s a real business opportunity.’

    Niall had turned away already. Sulkily, Kim went back to the car, where the child had started wailing.

    ‘Oh, you just shut up, Gary!’ she snarled. ‘You’re not going anywhere till I get all this dragged upstairs, so you may as well get used to it.’

 

Scowling, Niall Murdoch turned away. Stupid bitch! He’d have to get free of her somehow. Not that he suffered from pangs of conscience: given his home life he reckoned he was entitled to do whatever he liked. His wife wouldn’t care, and his daughter treated him like something she’d found on the sole of her shoe.

    But Kim McConnell, unfortunately, wasn’t the sort graciously to accept a hint that time had moved on; she had a big fat mouth and a spiteful nature. He didn’t appreciate her comment about the sheepdog trials either, even if he knew people laughed behind his back.

    Jenna had seen to that. ‘Face it,’ she told him, with the sort of brutality you shouldn’t have to take from your wife, ‘you’ll never train dogs like your father did. You haven’t the personality for it. And even if you did win, you wouldn’t be proving anything because he’s been dead these past six years – remember?’

    Niall had actually believed that once the old man wasn’t there, putting a hex on him with his critical eye and mocking his failures, he’d have the confidence to win. It mattered; somehow his father, rot his black soul, had instilled this into Niall’s consciousness as a measure of the man.

    It was hardly asking for the moon. All Niall wanted to do was take the crown, just once, in the piddling little kingdom of the local sheepdog trials which his father had for a decade made his own. Then he could retire gracefully, but despite his best efforts at training a number of dogs, years of humiliation had followed, particularly unpleasant in this glossy world where all that mattered was material success. This was his last throw of the dice: he’d borrowed an exorbitant amount from the business to buy Findlay Stevenson’s champion, Moss.

    Findlay, overstretched by borrowing himself, had lost his farm during the foot-and-mouth epidemic. Since then, he’d travelled the countryside with Moss, winning trials wherever he went, to boost his new business of training up working dogs and selling them. It had taken five thousand pounds to part the dog and his master.

    Niall hadn’t mentioned the loan to his business partner. Ronnie Lafferty wouldn’t react well. A Glasgow scrap metal dealer, he looked like a bullfrog and had manners to match; he had a trophy wife, the lustrous Gina, and he had no interest in anything except the bottom line. His sole reason for taking a half-share in the sailing school and marina along with Niall was that with it came automatic membership of the exclusive Drumbreck Yacht Club. He’d been turned down once before, and he hadn’t liked that one little bit.

    Niall was frankly afraid of him. Lafferty hadn’t made a fortune in his sort of business using sweet reason and goodwill, and if he found out . . . But he wouldn’t have to, Niall had reckoned; given another title to its name he could sell the dog on, probably for more than he had paid for it, in the next couple of days . . .

    The only problem was that the dog wasn’t living up to its reputation. Niall was beginning to suspect, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, that he’d been conned. The dog must be past its best; if it couldn’t manage to put in a decent performance under these conditions – a relatively small paddock, sheep that were accustomed to being handled – what was it going to do on the full-sized trial course, with unpredictable sheep? If this was how it showed tomorrow, Moss would be practically worthless. Niall would have to kiss goodbye to the money, or rather the business would, and then what would Ronnie say?

    They’d spent a hell of a lot on expanding the marina, in the teeth of some forcible local opposition, which had cost them in planning applications and legal fees, and it was expensive to run: business had been diabolical during the foot-and-mouth and still hadn’t recovered. It was all right for the farmers, raking in the compensation now, but no one was going to sub Niall a penny. The marina was only just keeping its head above water, to coin a phrase; five thousand would make a dangerous hole in the balance sheet and if Ronnie found out he’d go berserk.

    And then there was Davina coming back as well as everything else . . . He’d thought he’d never see her again. He’d done as she asked, sent her the information she wanted eighteen months ago, but his subsequent letter to the address she’d given him was returned, marked ‘Gone away’. After that, nothing – until now.

    But he couldn’t afford to think about her, not until tomorrow was over. Until then he had to be totally focused. He must practise, practise and practise again. Niall squared his shoulders and immediately the dog, which had been lying watching him warily, sat up pricking the ear that wasn’t permanently pricked. A gesture brought it to his side.

    The five sheep were clustered at the bottom of the paddock, dropping their heads and grazing now. With another gesture, Niall sent the dog on the outrun, meant to gather up the sheep and drive them calmly towards him through one of the sets of gateposts he had constructed in the middle of the field.

    The dog took off, fast and low to the ground, making a wide, sweeping arc to bring itself round behind the sheep. It was well done: the sheep hadn’t noticed it yet. They were still grazing and the trick was to lift them and begin the drive without alarming them. Cupping his hands, Niall gave an imperative whistle, then as the dog seemed to him too slow to respond, another, and it changed course obediently. The sheep spotted it; they looked from one to the other nervously, and the sheep in front broke into a run.

    ‘Come by!’ Niall yelled furiously. ‘Come by! No! No!’

    The sheep were all running now, heading in disorder to one side. The dog, confused, started to come in at their heels, alarming them further, and none of Niall’s increasingly furious instructions seemed to have any effect.

    The sheep missed the gate altogether, heading off to one side. His face purple with fury, his master yelled at the dog to come back and cowering, tail tucked between its legs, Moss obeyed, afraid to come yet even more afraid not to.

 

Marjory Fleming, smiling to acquaintances as she made her way along the crowded High Street, caught sight of her husband Bill before he spotted her. He was standing at the Raeburns’ stall, laughing at something Hamish had said: a pleasant-faced big man with a countryman’s complexion. Viewing him at a distance she saw with a pang that he was looking older: his fair hair was beginning to show the first signs of grey, and definitely wasn’t as far forward on his forehead as it used to be. The problems of the last few years had taken their toll, but at least the compensation money had come through now and the prospects for farmers who had survived the bad times were better than they had been for years – not that you’d ever get a farmer to admit it. Optimism was a cultural taboo.

    Still, the atmosphere in the market today was cheerful, almost festive, and Marjory’s own lips curved as she came within earshot of Bill’s hearty laughter.

    ‘What’s the joke?’ she demanded.

    ‘Marjory! Oh, you don’t want to know – one of Hamish’s worse efforts,’ Kirsty Raeburn greeted her. ‘Lucky to be spared it, really. Gosh, it’s hot, isn’t it? I’m melting, standing here, and the flies are driving me mad.’

    ‘It feels as if the weather’s on the turn,’ Marjory agreed. ‘I came out for a breath of fresh air but it’s almost worse outside. We could do with a good burst of rain to clear it.’

    ‘I didn’t expect to see you this early. Playing truant?’

    ‘Sort of,’ Marjory admitted. ‘Business has been slow this last bit.’

    Bill put his arm round her waist. ‘Kirsty, we’ve even had Marjory’s home-cooking for the last couple of weeks and we’re whimpering for some real food from the chilled section.’

    Grinning, Kirsty served a waiting customer as Marjory said bitterly, ‘Ungrateful swine! I was going to pop along to Anne Kerr’s bakery stall to buy a couple of her quiches for supper, but if you’re going to be like that I’ll get mince instead.’

    ‘No, no,’ Bill said hastily. ‘Spitefulness is unworthy of you.’

    Kirsty shook her head at him. ‘You’re pushing your luck, Bill!’

    ‘Too right he is. Don’t worry, he’ll pay for it later.’

    Bill struck his forehead. ‘Doh! And here’s me just going to ask for a favour. I take it all back, every word of it.’

    ‘That’s better,’ Kirsty said, adding, with a wink at another customer, ‘Should he be on his knees, maybe?’

    ‘What favour?’ Marjory’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

    ‘Oh, it’s just that Findlay Stevenson’s coming out to the Mains this afternoon to put in a bit of practice with the sheep before the trials tomorrow and I was going to offer him his supper, if that’s OK.’

    There was only a fractional pause before Marjory said heartily, ‘Yes, of course. No problem. I’ll buy an extra quiche and if Anne’s got meringues I’ll be back for cream, Kirsty.’

    Hamish was taking the money for a dozen of Marjory’s eggs and a pot of their own crowdie cheese. ‘How is Fin?’ he asked, over his shoulder.

    Bill grimaced. ‘It’s tough. He’s scrabbling along with temporary work – helped me out with the lambing and some fencing this year – and he’s sold a few of his trained collies. There’s a big demand and people are prepared to pay fancy prices, but it’s not easy to get in the work on them when you haven’t your own fields and sheep to do it with.’

    Findlay Stevenson was badly down on his luck. The whole farming community, with a ‘there-but-for-the-grace-of-God’ feeling, had rallied round, but you couldn’t give the man his farm back, or even give him a job if there wasn’t one.

    Marjory was happy to do her bit. Of course she was! And Findlay knew his business; he’d been a real help to Bill at the busy times of the farming year. It was only the relationship with Marjory that was a problem. The long shadow of foot-and-mouth still hung over them, when the Stevensons had refused entry to the slaughter teams, and Marjory had been on duty during the protest they had organized against it. Forced to submit, his wife Susie had spat in Marjory’s face, and neither she nor Findlay had ever really forgiven Marjory for what they saw as her part in their tragedy.

    Marjory had hardly set eyes on Susie since. She had a job now in a smart clothes boutique of the sort that made Marjory feel inadequate just passing by on the pavement, so their paths didn’t really cross. Findlay was always polite when they met at Mains of Craigie, but there was a certain constraint which made social occasions uncomfortable. Marjory could only hope something would come up at work this afternoon to give her an excuse not to be there for supper, and that her edgy feeling that a storm was brewing somewhere related only to the weather.

    ‘Are you putting your Meg in for the trials tomorrow?’ Kirsty was asking. ‘She’s always been a star.’

    Bill shook his head. ‘I haven’t the time these days to give her the polish she’d need, and I wouldn’t like to humiliate the dog. She always knows if she hasn’t matched up.’

    ‘We’re going to watch, though,’ Marjory put in. ‘And Laura’s coming. She thinks it would be good for Daisy to have some role models that do what they’re told without arguing.’

    Laura Harvey, a psychotherapist who had been involved in Marjory’s first case, had settled in Kirkluce and was now the fond owner of Meg’s daughter, Daisy.

    ‘Actually, she’s doing better with Daisy than I thought she might,’ Bill admitted. ‘I was worried she’d maybe let her get out of hand.’

    Suddenly, his wife stiffened. ‘Oh Lord! There’s my Super,’ she said, catching sight of Donald Bailey’s bald head bobbing in the crowd further down. ‘I’d better go.’

    Kirsty regarded her with amusement. ‘Marjory, you’re all grown up. Surely you’re allowed a lunch hour? He’s having one, after all.’

    ‘Yes, but we’ve both taken off early to do our shopping. It sort of means neither of us has enough to do. He’ll be embarrassed if I see him and I’ll be embarrassed if he sees me. Trust me – it’s a sort of police thing that we’re all invariably at full stretch.’

    She ducked away round the back of the stall, leaving the Raeburns and her husband as she had found them, roaring with laughter.

 

Standing at the kitchen sink, watching her husband talk to Kim McConnell, Jenna Murdoch raised one varnish-stained hand to push back a strand of mousy-fair hair, lank with sweat, which had escaped from the elastic band confining it at the base of her neck. It caught painfully in the crack beside her thumb-nail and she winced. There was a time when she’d had pretty, well-cared-for hands, with nails that were lacquered instead of broken, and well-kept hair, too. She even used to put night-cream on her face but it hardly seemed worth it, these days. She didn’t like looking in the mirror anyway and seeing the hatchet-faced woman with a sour expression who seemed to have taken her place.

    It had all seemed so promising, when Niall got the money from the sale of the farm, with planning permission on a couple of fields. He’d never wanted to be a farmer, least of all alongside his father, a right old devil who had obviously driven his wife into an early grave, and this would be a brand-new life where Niall could be happy and fulfilled. She’d blamed his dissatisfaction for turning the man she’d married – a good-looking hunk, famous for his pulling power – into a curmudgeon like his father. But now the only time Jenna saw the charm that had attracted her was when he was chatting up some woman he fancied.

    She’d actually been pleased when he bought a half-share in the marina at Drumbreck with its sailing school. Yachting and water sports were becoming more and more popular, it was well-situated and it looked like a sound business opportunity. Even when he told her that, without consultation, he’d snapped up a big house nearby, to stop it coming on the market, she had, God help her, been pleased. She worked in a bank and she knew all about the inflated values of Drumbreck properties.

    That was before she saw it. Rowan Villa was a huge, ugly, jerry-built house which was effectively a demolition job. It had every problem known to surveyors: dry rot, subsidence, nail-sickness, crumbling plaster, dangerous wiring, primitive plumbing. Only, of course, these hadn’t been known to surveyors, because Niall hadn’t commissioned a report before committing himself.

    ‘Lucky I could write a cheque on the spot,’ Niall told her, proud of his business acumen. ‘He’d a Glasgow entrepreneur sniffing around, he said, and with the Scottish blind bid system we’d never have got it if it went on the open market. And it’s a little gold mine. Once we do it up, we can have two, even three holiday lets – another business to run alongside the marina. Or if we don’t want to do that, we can do it up and sell it on for a serious profit.’

    The trouble was that Niall, in the days when he had come in and collapsed in front of the flickering screen after a long day’s physical labour, had seen too many property programmes from which he had absorbed the message that, with a quick lick of paint and a few interiors copied from the pages of a design magazine, you could find some idiot punter prepared to pay way over the odds. What he didn’t realize was that the idiot punter role had already been more than adequately filled.

    Niall couldn’t get a mortgage. Well, of course he couldn’t. When he’d insisted she pull strings with her boss at the bank, it had been embarrassing. ‘Jenna, I can’t. Not even for you. You know I can’t,’ he had said unhappily, and Jenna had been forced to agree.

    So, with all the money locked into either the business or the property, they’d had to face it that they couldn’t afford a professional conversion. ‘We can work on it together,’ Niall had said. ‘Then, once we have properties worth a cool couple of million you can go back and move our account. Show that smug little sod the business opportunity he’s missed.’

    That word, ‘we’. It was normally held to indicate more than one person, but it didn’t seem to have the same meaning in Niall’s dictionary. Jenna had given up her work at the bank; she wasn’t earning enough to pay for a tradesman to do the sort of unskilled work she could do herself, and somehow the house had become her single-handed project. She’d learned to deal with basic plumbing, joinery and decorating; after grudgingly paying for rewiring, about a third of the house was habitable now. But with almost no money for major repairs, particularly with the recent downturn in the business, she’d had to concentrate on those areas, and the rest of the property was even more derelict than it had been when they bought it.

    It had taken her independence, her youth, her looks. She had invested her whole life in the bloody house, so however bad the marriage might be she couldn’t afford to walk away. That was all that kept her going: the thought that she could leave him then and force a sale which would leave herself and Mirren comfortably set up for a new life elsewhere.

    And the first of the flats was all but ready now; she was going to put another coat of varnish on the floors this afternoon. Oh, they wouldn’t get top dollar for it with the rest of the property in a mess, but folk from outside were desperate for a foothold in paradise and selling it wouldn’t be a problem. In fact one of the locals who’d been causing trouble at the marina had made an offer – like they were going to move him in on their doorstep, even if it hadn’t been pitiably under what they were looking for!

    Once that was sold, there’d be money to move the project along a lot faster, and every day with a workman employed was one day fewer to wait for her freedom. She just had to keep things ticking over until then.

    Niall’s little escapades didn’t bother her. He’d always had an eye for the girls and for some reason, which she had understood at one time but certainly didn’t now, they seemed to fall for him too. But Jenna hadn’t considered anyone a serious threat for years and she viewed the busty blonde now chatting him up over the wall with the same weary contempt she had felt towards all the others. Set in the balance, she was comfortably certain that her value to him as a free tradesman far outweighed any romantic consideration, and she hadn’t been worried.

    Until the phone call yesterday. She knew who it was immediately when she’d picked up on the top landing just as Niall answered it downstairs.

    ‘Voice from the past!’ Husky, with a touch of laughter – it was unmistakable. ‘I’ve a new project, Niall. Meet me today, usual place, two o’clock?’

    ‘God – Davina?’ Niall sounded stunned. ‘What – where are you?’

    The only response was a mocking laugh, and the line went dead.

    When Niall had put down the receiver, Jenna dialled 1471, but the mechanical voice told her that the caller had withheld the number. Of course.

    She said nothing about it to Niall, who had been edgy and preoccupied at lunch. Jenna would do whatever she had to do to make sure Niall did not wreck her precious future, but today, by the looks of things, he seemed to have nothing on his mind beyond his obsession with proving something to a dead man.

    Niall was shouting at the poor dog now. He’d ruined it already; when he got it, it had been a cheerful, confident animal and now it was a mass of nerves with an uncertain temper. Mirren, whose love for animals was so passionate that she’d become a vegetarian five years ago when she was only eight, had been bitten the last time she’d gone to comfort it for being chained up outside. She had come in crying, for the dog not herself, having no doubt at all where the blame lay, and flown at her father with a sort of cold fury that was quite unnerving. Niall hadn’t taken it well, and the relationship was now as bad as his own had ever been with his father.

    Jenna heard a sudden yelp of pain from the dog and winced, looking at the clock. The schools were finishing early today for half-term and the bus from Wigtown would be dropping Mirren back any time now. If she saw that  . . .

    A moment later, the door flew open and Mirren burst into the room. She was thirteen, a thin, sharp-featured, awkward thirteen, still childish in some ways but with all a teenager’s intensity. She was white with fury, her dark brown eyes wide and brimming with tears.

    ‘He’s hitting poor Moss now! I wish I could hurt him like that – I hate him, I hate him! He should be in prison!’

    ‘Come and sit down. I’m just going to make you some pasta.’ Getting drawn into her daughter’s histrionics was never constructive.

    ‘I’m not hungry!’

    Mirren, starting to sob, ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door. Jenna sighed. Niall would be in any minute, also in a dramatically bad mood, and suddenly the job of varnishing floorboards seemed curiously attractive.

 

‘And what, may I ask, are you doing with that thing indoors, on my clean kitchen floor?’

    Gavin Scott, on his knees before the god of his idolatry – a new mountain bike – looked up with a start. He’d meant to get it out of the kitchen before his mother came home from work, but what with polishing it and oiling it the time had passed without him noticing.

    ‘I’m just seeing it’s ready for tomorrow,’ he said defensively. ‘I’m doing some of the forest tracks up above the Queen’s Way, so I’m needing to be away first thing.’

    Mrs Scott sniffed. ‘Away to break your neck on that stupid thing, more like. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And if there’s a mark left on that floor . . .’ Leaving the threat unspecified, she went out.

    Gavin pulled a face at the shut door. He was nineteen, too old to be living at home still. It was cheap, that was all you could say for it, but now he’d saved up and bought his bike he could afford to rent a room in a flat somewhere. He might make more friends that way, find some other guys who liked mountain biking too. He enjoyed it anyway, but it would be more fun in a group.

    With one last, loving polish to the machine, he stood up and prepared to carry it reverentially out to its place in the shed.

 

The Yacht Club bar was busy this evening, with the official start to the sailing season next day and the first race on Sunday. The schools’ half-term week had started too, and the tables by the bar’s low windows looking out over Drumbreck Bay were crowded, even if the view was less appealing now with the tide out. The decibel count rose to discomfort levels as acquaintances from previous years, not yet jaded by over-familiarity, brayed enthusiastic greetings. Children were bunched round a pool table at the farther end of the room, already establishing a pecking order which would condemn the unconfident, the unathletic and the seriously uncool to a summer of miserable isolation. A plump boy with spectacles was even now hovering uncomfortably on the fringes.

    Niall Murdoch made his way directly to the bar, looking neither to right nor to left. He hated having to do the glad-handing bit; it was all very well for Ronnie to tell him that chatting up the buggers was part of the job, but he wasn’t the one on the spot. Every time Niall spoke to one of the punters it seemed to turn into a moan session about some problem with the marina – broken decking on a pontoon, a dispute about moorings, vandalism by some of the disaffected locals which had meant they’d even had to hire a night watchman, a retired policeman, at great expense. And there were one or two people he was quite anxious to avoid, Kim and her husband in particular. But she’d said Adrian wasn’t coming until tomorrow, and she’d be stuck in the house looking after the youngest kid, with any luck.

    And the alternative was staying in the house, where Mirren kept looking through him as if he weren’t there and Jenna, saint and martyr, was spending the evening drilling – deliberately, he reckoned – in the room next door to the sitting-room. And he’d engaged a rather tasty new water-ski instructor for the summer season – ah, there she was!

    Niall bought a pint and made his way to the corner of the bar where she was standing with a group of young men, a couple of them his own workers from the marina. She welcomed him into the group enthusiastically, having seen nothing but his charming side as yet, and amid the banter and laughter his concerns about the trials tomorrow, the money and Davina slipped from his mind.

    ‘Niall!’ His partner’s voice was an unwelcome surprise. Murdoch turned and looked down from his six foot one at the squat man with prominent eyes, bulging now with temper, and three layers of chin below a jaw thrust out pugnaciously.

    ‘Ronnie! I didn’t know you were coming down this weekend.’

    ‘I’ll bet you didn’t,’ he said ominously. ‘I wasn’t, till I clocked the printout from the bank. Outside!’

    Feeling faintly sick and with a feeble smile at his companions, Niall set down his glass and followed Lafferty’s swaggering passage between the chatting groups and into the reception hall. It was empty at the moment; as the heavy glass door shut on the bar the noise diminished to a hum.

    Lafferty squared up to him. ‘Taken up embezzling, have you? What a moron – didn’t even cover your tracks! Did you think I didn’t check?’

    Murdoch gulped. ‘Ronnie, it’s not like that! Just a temporary loan, that’s all.’

    ‘The marina’s not in the money-lending business.’ Lafferty took a step closer, jabbing at Niall’s chest with a stubby finger. ‘See, you – I want that money put back, right now. I don’t care how you get it. OK?’

    ‘Sure, sure.’ Murdoch was sweating now. ‘I’ll sell the dog again whenever the sheepdog trials are over. I could have the money by tomorrow night.’

    Lafferty’s hand dropped, along with his jaw. ‘You spent that on a dog? What are you – gormless or something? Oh, they saw you coming, boyo! You’d have done better backing one down the tracks.’

    Stung, Niall protested, ‘They’re valuable, champion collies! And with another title to its name—’

    ‘With you running it? That’s a joke!’ Lafferty laughed rudely. Then he shrugged. ‘Not my problem anyway, is it? We’ll need that money for wages at the end of the week. Where’s it coming from?’

    Murdoch flinched. He’d never quite allowed himself to articulate the fear that he would fail; Ronnie’s naked contempt made it seem all too real. Inevitable, almost.

    ‘Thanks. That’s a great help, undermining my confidence,’ he said bitterly, then, emboldened by self-pity, added, ‘Anyway, what’s five thousand to you? You could pay that out of your back pocket.’

    ‘Five thousand!’ Lafferty’s roar of rage earned a startled look from the couple just leaving the bar on the way out. ‘I could pay fifty thousand out of my back pocket! But I’m not going to. You’ve stolen money that’s mine – just ask around what happens to people who try to cheat Ronnie Lafferty!

    ‘Tomorrow night, you said? I’ll be expecting to see it lodged in the account on Monday morning.’ He turned and went to the door, shouldering his way past the couple who were still standing transfixed.

    ‘Are you – are you all right?’ the woman said hesitantly.

    Niall, his face sickly pale, tried to smile. ‘Just a little difficulty between friends. Flies off the handle – he’ll calm down now he’s got it off his chest.’

    ‘Fine, fine!’ The man’s response was hearty and he put his arm round his wife’s shoulders, urging her towards the door. ‘Come on, Shirley – we’d better go. Babysitter, you know!’

    As they left, with obvious relief, Niall put his hand up to his head. It would be a miracle if he won tomorrow, or even if Moss performed in a way that would make anyone want to buy him, and then there would be nothing he could do to raise the money. Chewing his lip, he walked across the hall. Then, at the door, he stopped.

    Unless, unless  . . .

 

Marjory and Bill sat on at the supper table in the kitchen after Findlay had left, lingering over the coffee cups. The children were upstairs, hopefully engaged in homework though more probably, in Cameron’s case, finding elaborate ways of not doing it. Catriona mercifully seemed to be back on an even keel, eating normally, and wasn’t for the moment at least a source of anxiety to her parents.

    ‘He’s in a bad way, isn’t he, poor Fin!’ Marjory shook her head. ‘He couldn’t talk about anything but the trials tomorrow. And if I had a fiver for every time he said, “If I just hadn’t had to sell Moss!” I could afford to buy one of his dogs myself. I know he needs winners to boost his reputation, but he seems a bit paranoid – even if they lose to Moss, everyone’ll know Fin trained him.’

    ‘That’s not what it’s about, really,’ Bill argued. ‘It’s personal. It’s as if we were forced to sell Meg.’

    The dog, curled up beside the Aga, looked up at the mention of her name.

    ‘Don’t listen to him, Meggie. We’d starve first,’ Marjory said soothingly, and the dog put her head back down and shut her eyes. ‘Oh, I can see it’s awful for him. And even if he gets offers for both dogs tomorrow, it’s not exactly a living wage, is it? He doesn’t have another two he can sell next month.’

    ‘No.’ Bill shifted in his seat. He was playing with his teaspoon; he looked up and said, ‘Marjory, I’ve been thinking.’

    ‘Oh dear! I thought I heard a grinding noise.’ She spoke lightly, but her eyes were suddenly wary. She knew her man, and she had a sinking feeling that the storm her tension headache had been signalling was just about to break, even if outside the evening was warm and still.

    ‘You know this compensation money? I thought I’d go back to fattening cattle for the market again, the way I used to.’

    ‘Good idea!’ Marjory said enthusiastically. ‘It’d be nice to have calves around the place again. But Bill, if you do you’ve got to have proper help—’ She stopped. ‘Oh.’

    ‘It’s obvious, really, isn’t it? Fin needs the work, he’s a good man and a hard worker, knows everything you need to know—’

    ‘And you get on with him. OK, OK.’ Marjory sighed. ‘It’s only the past history with me that’s the problem. I can forget it but I’m not sure he can. I can hear him thinking about it whenever I’m around.’

    She paused, drumming her fingers on the table. Bill said nothing and at last she sighed again.

    ‘Of course you must. I know that. When you’ve got a job to offer and he needs one so badly, it would be wicked not to do it. He’ll get used to me eventually, I suppose, and anyway I’d hardly need to see him, would I? I’d be out at work all day and he’d be gone by the time I came home.’

    Bill still said nothing and she looked at him sharply. ‘He would, Bill, wouldn’t he? You’re not thinking – oh Bill, no!’

    ‘He didn’t mention it this evening, but they’re worried sick. With the tourist market recovering, their landlord would rather have holiday lets, so he’s raised the rent to get them out. He’s within his rights – it was only a six-month contract – but they’ve had to move in with Susie’s parents. And our cottage is standing empty—’

    Marjory sank her head into her hands. ‘Bill, please don’t do this! Fin’s just awkward but Susie really hates me. I saw her in the street the other day and she didn’t just blank me, she gave me a death stare.

    ‘Of course I’d been thinking you might expand the farm again, take on a man. And I had hoped you might find someone with a wife who’d like a job giving a hand in the house. It’s been quiet lately but when things were busy I was finding it really tough to cope before, now Mum can’t do anything except look after Dad—’

    ‘I know, I know. Maybe Susie could—’ But even with Bill’s optimistic nature he couldn’t finish that sentence.

    ‘No. Exactly. And she’ll hate me even more when I’m in the farmhouse and she’s in the farm worker’s cottage.’ Marjory was fighting a rearguard action, and she knew it.

    ‘It’s a big ask, sweetheart.’ Bill put his hand on hers. ‘But it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?’

    Marjory withdrew her hand. ‘Of course it bloody is, and of course I’ll do it, and I’ll get new curtains for the cottage and see it’s nice and clean and welcoming, and maybe she’ll be pleased and won’t hate me any more. But I reserve the right to be fed up to the back teeth.’

    Bill smiled, leaning forward to kiss her reluctant cheek. ‘That’s my girl! Feel the pain but do it anyway.’

    She laughed dutifully and got up to start clearing the table, but her throat was tight with misery and her head was pounding now. Her home had always been her refuge, the place she came back to with a lift of her heart. How would it feel when she couldn’t so much as go out to feed her hens without knowing there were hostile eyes watching her?