Fuck, Helena Grant thought, this is turning into a really fucking bad night.
The keys had to be somewhere. She’d had them just moments before when she’d locked the car doors. They couldn’t have disappeared in the thirty seconds between then and now.
But she couldn’t find them. She plunged her hands into her coat pockets, hoping she might have dropped them in there, but there was nothing. She reopened her handbag and peered inside, rummaging through the contents one more time in the hope the keys might magically reappear.
She’d forgotten to leave a light on when she’d left, and the only illumination was the pale glow of a streetlight some distance away, so she was relying largely on touch. But it was an electronic car fob with a couple of house keys attached, so it shouldn’t have been difficult to identify.
She peered into the darkness. Why the hell hadn’t she just kept the keys in her hand? She’d been distracted, still thinking through the events of the evening. Still well and truly pissed off. She hadn’t been concentrating. She couldn’t recall what she’d done after locking the car. At that point, the keys had been in her hand. Now they weren’t. What the hell had happened to them in the interim?
This really was the last thing she needed tonight. All she wanted to do was get inside, climb out of this bloody smart suit, and knock back a very stiff drink. Was that too much to ask?
She wearily retraced her steps to the car, peering intently at the ground. If the keys weren’t in her handbag or pockets, she reasoned, she must have dropped them between the house and the car.
But there was no sign of the keys. How could that be? If she’d dropped them, they’d just be lying there. They couldn’t have rolled away. It wasn’t possible.
She straightened up and leaned against the car. Then she swore again, this time loudly enough to disturb the neighbours.
The keys were there. Sitting mockingly on the car roof. Why in God’s name had she put them there? She had no recollection of having done so. This really was the ageing process in action.
She strode back towards the house, this time clutching the keys firmly in her fist. It took her a moment’s fumbling to open the door, and then finally she was inside. Jesus, what a night.
Ten minutes later, she was in the kitchen, smart suit well and truly ditched, in her dressing gown with a bottle of Glen Ord Singleton Malt in front of her. The bottle was only a quarter full and she was tempted to finish it, but there was still work in the morning. A glass would have to do.
She poured a dram and headed back into the sitting room. The woodstove was still alight, so she threw in a couple more logs and slumped back onto the sofa.
What a bloody night.
This was the worst so far, and none of them had been exactly brilliant. Each time she went with hope that this might be the one, that they’d both know as soon as they started talking. They’d click and everything would flow smoothly from there.
Each time she came away with a gnawing sense of despair. Despair at her own inadequacies or unsuitability. Despair at the apparently universal awfulness of the opposite sex. Despair at the general unfairness and randomness of the universe and its workings.
So, no, it hadn’t been a great success so far.
Tonight’s had been the worst, though. Some arse called Martin Delaney. He’d arranged for them to meet in a smart restaurant in Inverness, down by the riverside. She’d been mildly pissed off by that to start with, given that he was based in Inverness and she was all the way up here. But, in fairness, there was no sensible midpoint to meet and the choice and quality of restaurants in the city were better than round here. But it would have been nice at least to have been asked.
She’d arrived a little early, as she tended to, and had sat at the table sipping at her sparkling water. That was another problem about having to come into the city. She couldn’t even boost her confidence with a G&T or a glass of wine.
Delaney, inevitably, had been fifteen minutes late. He’d had her mobile number, but obviously hadn’t thought it worth calling. She’d sat there calculating how long she should wait before deciding she’d been stood up. After that she’d been thinking about whether, if so, she should just bugger off home or stay and treat herself to a decent solo supper.
She was still thinking through all that when he’d finally turned up, breathless but with no apology. He’d dumped himself down in the seat opposite and said, ‘Got a bit held up. Hope you’ve not been here long.’
Only since the time we agreed, she’d said to herself. Out loud, she said, ‘Just a few minutes. No worries.’ No fucking worries. She’d actually said that.
The photographs he’d used on the site were not recent, and the age he’d given had been a generous underestimate. He was significantly older than she was, and significantly balder and fatter than the pictures had indicated.
Not that any of that troubled her unduly. Her late husband had been ten years older than she was, and not exactly Mr Universe. She was less concerned about Delaney’s appearance than his dishonesty. And there was something else about him already making her feel uneasy. Something she couldn’t immediately pin down.
It hadn’t taken long for that initial instinctive dislike to be justified. ‘Right, then, let’s get the menus,’ he’d said. After that he’d actually fucking snapped his fingers at a passing waitress. ‘Menus, please, lass. Chop-chop.’
She couldn’t quite believe it even now. But those had been his exact words. Chop fucking chop. She knew he was English – he’d included that in his profile, apparently as some mark of distinction – but even that wasn’t an excuse for such mind-boggling boorishness.
So the evening had started badly, and then quickly careered even further downhill. Delaney had read through the menu with enthusiasm, advising her confidently on what to order. Naturally, she’d made a point of ignoring his advice, earning her a disapproving shake of the head. ‘You’ll be sorry you didn’t order the venison. Mark my words.’
‘I’m not that keen on venison, I’m afraid.’ She loved venison. ‘I’d rather stick with the sea bass. A bit lighter.’ And why the hell am I justifying my decisions to this pompous oaf, she’d asked herself.
So it had gone on. He’d ordered wine without bothering to consult her. She didn’t care because she wasn’t intending to drink anyway, but again it would have been good to have been asked. Over the starters – he’d recommended the terrine, she’d opted for the beetroot and feta salad – he’d described his job in mind-numbing detail. He was apparently the finance director of some local hotel chain, and he’d offered her a wealth of instantly forgettable insights into the hospitality industry.
Finally, just as they were about to start the main course, he’d asked her, ‘So what about you?’ He was already beginning to shovel down the food. She suspected he’d only asked her the question to give himself time to eat.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, what do you do? Work, I mean.’
‘I work for the police.’ She’d long ago decided there was no point in prevaricating about her occupation.
He’d looked up, clearly surprised. ‘The police? What, some sort of admin role?’
She’d smiled sweetly. ‘No. A police officer. A detective, actually.’
He’d put down his knife and fork, his expression suggesting he was finding her words too baffling to compute. ‘A detective? Like a detective constable?’
‘Sort of. Except I’m a chief inspector.’
Delaney’s jaw hadn’t literally dropped, but it might as well have done. She’d been able to read exactly what he was thinking. The major upside was that, from that point, he’d largely lapsed into silence, clearly having no idea how to interact further with her. She’d at least been able to enjoy her sea bass in relative peace.
After that she’d cut her losses as quickly as she could, turning down dessert and coffee. He’d seemed only too happy to bring the evening to an end. She’d insisted on splitting the bill as she always did, even paying for half of the wine she hadn’t tasted.
But that hadn’t quite been the end of it.
She’d been keen to get away as quickly as she could, but still felt obliged to say a polite goodbye to him on the street outside. She was trying to find something to say that wouldn’t sound sarcastic, when he’d suddenly lunged at her. She hadn’t been sure whether he was aiming for a simple peck on the cheek or something more amorous. Either way, it suggested he’d either fundamentally misread the evening or, more likely, didn’t care.
She pulled back involuntarily, her face no doubt revealing her disgust. He’d stared at her, his expression moving from bafflement to anger. ‘Like that, is it?’
She’d had no real idea what he was talking about. Before she could respond, he’d turned and strode away down the riverside. She’d heard him say, ‘Bloody typical’, as he’d disappeared into the darkness.
She’d stared after him, feeling oddly wrong-footed, as if she’d somehow been the one behaving badly. Maybe that had been his intention. To leave her with a sense the whole crappy evening had been her fault, even though he’d been an obnoxious entitled buffoon.
Yes, that had definitely been the worst one so far. The previous ones had been stressful, occasionally hard work and never exactly fun. But at least the dates had been mostly half-decent human beings, even if they hadn’t been right for her. Tonight’s had been something else again. It hadn’t just been his obnoxious behaviour. She realised now that her first instinctive discomfort in his presence had developed into something more substantial as the evening progressed.
She took a sip of the whisky, enjoying the warm burn in her throat. She could just stop the experiment now, she supposed. She’d only embarked on this to see what would happen, egged on by a couple of her friends.
She’d made the decision a month or two back, deciding it was finally time for her to try to move on. She felt as if she’d been in stasis in the years since Rory’s death. It had been so unexpected, so shocking, that it had almost left her without the will to continue. In the end, she managed to carry on largely by focussing on work, the day-to-day routine. There’d been more than enough of that to keep her busy.
Eventually, she’d decided to sell their house and move up here. At the time, that had felt like a decisive moment, the start of a new life. In some ways, it had worked. But she knew that, at heart, it had changed nothing. It just meant she was now living alone in a smaller house.
When Alec McKay had temporarily separated from Chrissie, she’d vaguely wondered whether the answer might lie there. There’d always been something between her and Alec. Nothing serious. Nothing that Chrissie had ever needed to worry about. But a spark. Something that might have caught fire if the circumstances had ever been right.
But they never had been. McKay was now back with Chrissie, apparently happily enough, and that was almost certainly for the best. But it had left Grant wondering what to do with herself, with her life.
She’d been talking about this – not about McKay but about her need to change things – one semi-drunken night with a couple of friends, and one of them had suggested internet dating.
It hadn’t even been a serious suggestion. But somehow it had stayed with her. It wasn’t as if she had many other options. She might meet someone at work, but it seemed increasingly unlikely. In any case, she’d recognised, in her half-serious fantasies about McKay, that any work-based relationship was likely to be fraught with problems.
Outside work, she wasn’t involved in any activities likely to bring her into contact with potential soulmates. She supposed she could take up some hobby or pastime to put her in contact with others, but she’d never been the clubbable type. Beyond that, she couldn’t think of any other obvious ways to get out and meet people.
So she’d decided to give it a try. She’d signed up to a couple of what she understood to be the more respectable websites, and then had plunged right in.
So far, it hadn’t been a conspicuous success. Maybe her standards were too high. But it wasn’t really that. It was just that, so far, she’d had almost nothing in common with any of the men she’d met. The evenings had been hard work. You had to give it long enough to get beyond the initial nerves, to see whether the stilted awkwardness would eventually transform into something more relaxed. Sometimes it had, but so far that had just exposed the lack of anything substantive to talk about. Then you had the problem of extricating yourself without appearing rude. Although some of the men hadn’t had many qualms about that.
Should she just give it up? She’d asked herself this at the end of each one of these evenings, and every time she’d decided to try just one more time. It was easy to be suckered in by a promising-looking profile. Tonight was a perfect example. It wasn’t so much that he’d used out-of-date photographs of himself. She’d found that more amusing than anything else, and perhaps indicative of insecurity rather than vanity. It was more that his profile had made him sound a different person – more interesting, more sensitive – than the pompous boor who’d sat opposite her.
She sighed and took another sip of the whisky. Probably best to sleep on it. See how she felt tomorrow, faced with the prospect of another working week. That was what she was looking for. Something additional to that daily grind. She loved her job, but it could be all-consuming. She needed something more than just that and lonely evenings at home.
She swallowed the last of the whisky, started to clear up, ready to head up to bed. As she rose, her mobile buzzed on the table beside her. She picked it up and looked at the screen. A text.
There were only three words. ‘Bitch. Watch out.’
The sender’s number had been withheld. Was this Delaney continuing his unique form of charm offensive? It was possible. He had her mobile number, and he’d certainly struck her as unpleasant enough to do something like this. She just wouldn’t have imagined he’d have the bottle to send a threatening message, however untraceable it might prove to be, to a serving police officer.
There were other potential explanations, of course. In a job like hers, you inevitably made plenty of enemies. It wasn’t the first time she’d received a threat like this, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last. Usually, it was no more than empty posturing from some impotent scrote she’d put inside. Her number wasn’t exactly in the public domain, but it wasn’t that difficult to track down if you could be bothered. Maybe she’d look into it in the morning, but it didn’t really trouble her too much.
Then the phone buzzed again. A second text. Three more words.
‘Find your keys?’
This time she really did feel a clutch of fear in her stomach. Still holding the phone tightly, she turned off the lights, crossed over to the window and pulled back the edge of the curtain. The front of her house looked out over Beauly Firth, and she could see the lights on the far shore glimmering on the still water.
The road outside was silent and deserted. There was rarely any traffic down here at this time in the evening, unless one of her neighbours was returning late. Someone could be out there hiding in the shadows, but there was no sign of any movement in the pale glare of the streetlights.
She was by no means a cowardly woman, but the second text had left her shaken. Someone had been out there watching her earlier. Close enough to have worked out what she was doing. Someone who had just sent her a threatening text.
She had decent security here but couldn’t fool herself the place was impregnable if someone was determined to get in. At this time of the year, she was leaving and returning in darkness, and there was no way of avoiding that walk, short as it was, to where her car was parked. If there really was a threat – and the fact that this person had taken the trouble to come here meant she had to take it seriously – she knew she was vulnerable.
Something else to think about tomorrow. She was too tired and overwrought to think about it rationally. Nothing was going to happen tonight, she was sure. The texts had been intended to unsettle her, unnerve her. The person who sent them was toying with her, and, even if they really did intend to act on the threats, they’d continue the taunting for a while yet.
Even so, she double-checked the front and back doors were securely locked and bolted, and made a further check of all the downstairs windows. The passageway along the side of the house was gated and locked so there was no easy way to access the rear of the building.
She was as safe here as she could be. Still clutching the phone, she made her way upstairs for what she knew would be, at best, a very disturbed night’s sleep.