10

Campbell Drummond prided himself on the fact that there was nothing mechanical beyond his skills. Cars, trucks, lorries, tractors, motor cycles, quad bikes, fishing boats, even washing machines and lawnmowers—they held no mystery for him. He could repair them all. If it had an engine, he could take it apart and put it back together again. He could listen to their individual voices and hear whatever ailed them. His wife had believed in the whispers of spirits; he believed in the throaty rumble of cogs, gears and motor oil.

He was bent over the open bonnet of a Vauxhall Astra when Shona appeared at his elbow. He didn’t need to look around to the open doors of his workshop to know that his son was standing there. So he didn’t bother. He continued to check the spark plugs without a word.

He felt Shona’s eyes on him, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, she broke the silence. ‘Dad, Roddie’s here.’

He jerked a plug from its socket, inspected it with an expert eye. It needed to be replaced.

‘Dad.’

‘Aye, I heard you.’

He laid the plug aside, worked at the next one.

‘Dad . . .’ Shona managed to inject both an appeal and a reprimand into that single word. Mary could do that, too. But Mary was gone. He heard his daughter sigh and he glanced at her, saw she had that familiar determined look on her face that told him she wouldn’t stop until he acknowledged Roddie’s presence. He wiped his hands on a rag and turned, raising his head slowly as if fighting a strong counter-force, and looked on his son for the first time in fifteen years. He was framed in the sunlight in the doorway, his travelling bag still in his hand.

‘Hello, Dad.’ Roddie’s voice was hoarse.

Campbell nodded and Shona gave him a slight nudge with her arm to prompt him to say something. ‘You’ve put weight on,’ he said.

Roddie nervously looked down at his stomach. ‘Aye. My diet hasn’t been the best the past few years. Too much fast food, too many quick meals.’

Campbell stared at his son for a few moments. He felt he should say more. He wanted to say more. But he didn’t know whether the words would be of welcome or rebuke. If Mary had been here she’d have been in floods of tears and would have been embracing her prodigal, then fussing over him. Mary wasn’t here, though. If she had been, Roddie wouldn’t be here. Campbell knew that. The boy had come back because his mother was no longer with them. He could not face her fifteen years before and he wouldn’t be able to face her now. Shame was powerful. Campbell knew that only too well, for he had felt it every day since that night. Every time he looked on his wife he’d felt it, but never discussed it with her. He dealt with it himself, ratcheted it down. That was his way. And so there were no words of welcome from him and no display of affection, only a curt nod and a few words. ‘You know where your room is. Your mother kept it as you left it.’

He turned back to the engine. He understood it better than his own feelings. A few moments later he heard his son walk away.

‘For God’s sake, Dad,’ said Shona, her voice thick with exasperation. He knew he vexed her in the same way he had vexed her mother, but it was too late now for him to change.

He said nothing, simply kept on working. He felt her staring at him for a long time, then she too walked away.

* * *

Rebecca didn’t bother to unpack, reasoning there would be plenty of time for that later. She also knew she would probably leave her clothes folded in her case until needed and throw the dirty ones into a corner until she stuffed them in a plastic bag. Her mother would be horrified at her going anywhere in clothing with even the barest hint of a crease, but her mother wasn’t there and what she didn’t know wouldn’t annoy her.

She was eager to speak to the Reverend Fiona McRae about her father. As the ferry had docked, she had spotted the church on a hill above Portnaseil so it wouldn’t be hard to find. What she hadn’t banked on was the steep climb from town to the road that ran the length of the island. Once there, however, the walk was flat and easy, although her calf muscles griped so much she wished she had used her gym membership more often. The road offered a fine view down on Portnaseil and the harbour, and beyond it to the mainland, which looked clear in the crisp autumn sunshine. At this distance from Inverness she felt her worries about the office diminish. It would all work out, she convinced herself. It would all be fine.

But that little voice in her head would not be still. A welcome. A warning. She was unsure which.

She reached the notice that informed her Portnaseil Church was part of the Church of Scotland fold, and leaned against the black iron gate to stare at the gravel pathway weaving up the hill to the building itself. Willing her calf muscles to gird up their loins, she began the trek upwards again.

When she reached the top, Rebecca paused to take in the view. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was really to catch her breath and let the breeze cool her flushed cheeks. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that she had a face like a well-skelped arse, as her dad used to say. She really had to do something about her fitness level. The climb hadn’t been steep enough to demand Sherpa guides but it made her wonder how any elderly parishioners managed it every Sunday.

The path meandered through a graveyard that looked as though it dated back hundreds of years, with mossy stones and dark Celtic cross markers erupting from the ground in no discernible pattern. It ended at the small church building of plain grey stone devoid of any ornament. There were three large windows on the wall facing her, little more than slits, and a small belfry. The big double doors, painted green, were closed and, she discovered when she turned the large hanging oval handles, locked. She wandered around the side, her feet crunching on the gravel path, enjoying the late blooms in the lovingly tended flower beds.

She was just rounding the far corner of the building when she almost collided with a plump woman carrying an empty basket containing traces of earth and a well-used pair of gardening gloves. Here, then, was the attentive gardener. She was of indeterminate age—anywhere between forty and sixty—with the ruddy face of someone who works outdoors much of the time. They both made the expected show of surprise—exclamations, hands to chests and a few steps back. Rebecca almost laughed at their pantomime. Or was it a ritual?

‘Och, lass,’ said the woman, her voice dripping good humour. ‘You almost put me in my grave!’

‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Not to worry—I wouldn’t have far to go, would I?’

The woman jerked her head behind her towards a more modern cemetery carved out of the land, a more regimented place of the dead than the Hammer horror version at the front of the church.

In the far corner two men were digging a fresh grave, one operating a small digger. The use of machinery for such an ancient art was jarring but Rebecca couldn’t say why.

‘I’m looking for the Reverend McRae, is she here?’

‘No, lass—she’s away off the island for a few days. Won’t be back for a day or two yet. For the funeral.’

Rebecca wondered if it was Roddie’s mother’s grave they were digging.

‘She wasn’t expecting you, was she? Fiona, I mean.’

Rebecca shook her head. ‘No, I’m over here for a few days. She’s . . .’ Rebecca wondered how to describe her. ‘An old friend of my father’s. He was born on the island.’

‘Oh, is that so?’ The woman was genuinely interested. ‘And what’s his name?’

‘Connolly,’ said Rebecca, feeling hope rise that this woman might’ve known him. ‘John Connolly. He left when he was in his late teens.’

The woman was silent for a moment and then she shook her head. ‘Connolly,’ she repeated, turning her face away slightly. She might’ve been trying to recall her father, but Rebecca sensed something different. ‘No,’ said the woman, stepping around her. ‘I can’t say it rings any bells, dear. Sorry for the rush, but I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon. I’m sure Fiona will help you when she gets back, if you’re still here.’

‘I’ll still be here,’ said Rebecca, and the woman gave her a slight smile, more out of politeness than anything else, then moved quickly along the path, her feet slapping on the gravel like ragged gunshots. Rebecca watched her go, troubled by the change in attitude. The woman had been like a ray of sunshine, welcoming, open, helpful. But she’d detected a slight change as soon as Rebecca mentioned her father’s name. It was as if a cloud had passed over the sun.

* * *

Most people meeting Jarji Nikoladze for the first time thought he was Russian. Many of them continued to believe that and, even though technically they were correct, he did not think of himself as Russian. He was a Georgian and he was proud of his heritage, although he had left his homeland thirty years before, when he was ten, and was never likely to return, at least not while he was breathing. He liked Scotland. In Georgia his family had been little more than peasants but here they lived like kings. He was a tall man who kept his frame bulked out with regular exercise and close attention to his diet. His black, wavy hair was regularly and carefully cropped by one of the top stylists in Edinburgh. At the prices the man charged, he had better be one of the top stylists. Jarji was fastidious in his tailoring, nothing but the best was good enough for him. He was so clean he practically gleamed.

The same could not be said for his companion. Tamaz always looked too big for his suits and no matter how much he tried he never looked smart. He was balding but he was resolute in his attempts to disguise the fact by combing what hair he had from the back of his head forward. It fooled nobody but they were not likely to comment on the fact. His name was derived from ancient Persian and meant strong and brave. Tamaz was both of those things and had often been called upon to exercise these attributes in service to Jarji and his older brother Ichkit.

In Georgian, Jarji meant ‘herald’ and that was his function. He was sent by his brother to both deliver and glean news. Sometimes that entailed violence, hence the need for the particular skills of the strong and brave Tamaz. However, there was no need for any unpleasantness on this day. His visit to Stoirm was merely a formality, a way for his brother in Edinburgh to remind the man sitting across the large wooden coffee table that he had promises to keep. Henry and Jarji were old friends, but business was business, even when conducted in impressive surroundings. In Georgia Jarji would never have been allowed anywhere near such luxury. The spacious sitting room of Stoirm House had high ceilings and large windows that looked out on a perfectly mowed lawn curving down to the driveway. A mature burst of pampas grass erupted from the centre like a fountain. He had not been in this room for fifteen years but it had changed very little. The same old but comfortable upholstery; the same enormous paintings, a mixture of landscapes and family portraits. It impressed Jarji that Henry could trace his lineage back generations. Jarji could trace his only back as far as his great-grandfather, a soldier in the Red Army who died defending Stalingrad. Despite that, here he was greeted as an honoured guest, and by an aristocrat, no less. Money was a great leveller. Money and power. And a little bit of fear.

Somewhere within the house was the sound of hammering and a power drill. Renovations. The view of the garden from this room was clear but elsewhere scaffolding allowed the workers to replace windows and repair brickwork, while above them the slates of the roof were being removed and new ones slotted in.

He studied the folder on his lap, which Henry had presented to him at the conclusion of the social niceties. It contained the plans for the estate, including income and expenditure projections for the next five years and the cost of the work Jarji could see and hear being carried out already.

‘As you can see, Jarji, there is nothing to cause you or your brother concern,’ said Henry, his voice only barely showing traces of nerves. Jarji was used to that when conducting family business, particularly when Tamaz was standing behind him like a giant moon looking to eclipse somebody’s sun. Tamaz couldn’t help but exude menace, his ludicrous comb-over aside.

Jarji laid the folder on the plump cushion of the couch on which he sat. He leaned forward and lifted his coffee cup. ‘We have no concerns, Henry,’ he said, his voice showing barely a trace of his Georgian roots, although carrying a faint American twang. He sipped his coffee. ‘Ichkit merely wanted me to ensure that everything is on track. He has made a sizeable investment in this venture.’

‘I’ve never let you down before, have I?’ Henry said, giving Jarji the smile that had helped him sail through university life. ‘Everything is proceeding apace.’

Apace. Only someone with Henry’s breeding would use such a word. ‘Good. So there are no impediments?’

‘Nothing that can’t be overcome.’

Jarji slowly laid his cup back on the table, sat back and languidly swung one leg over the other. He plucked at his trouser leg to make sure the crease was straight. He crossed his hands on his lap. And then, and only then, did he look back at Henry with a smile that no one would ever mistake for being good-humoured. ‘So there are impediments?’

Henry’s nervous laugh skittered from his throat. ‘Nothing to worry about, I assure you.’

Jarji’s smile seemed frozen. ‘My friend, I do not worry. I never worry. I am famous for not worrying. Is that not so, Tamaz?’

‘He never worries,’ said Tamaz, his voice rumbling like the beginning of an earthquake.

‘My brother, however, he is the worrier. I tell him he’ll worry himself into an early grave. He worries about this venture—did you know he tried something similar a few years ago? On the mainland?’

Henry shook his head, his eyes darting from Tamaz to Jarji. ‘No, I hadn’t heard.’

‘It is not something he likes to talk about but it ended badly. There was unpleasantness. I hope there will be no unpleasantness this time around. Memories of our previous endeavour here are also unpleasant . . .’

‘No,’ said Henry, a bit too quickly. ‘There is merely some resistance from a few locals, that’s all. As I said, nothing to cause concern in the slightest. They can do nothing to stop my plans—our plans—going ahead.’

Jarji’s smile changed and would now cause the mercury to rise. ‘That is good, old friend, that is good.’

‘We have a public meeting tonight, in Portnaseil, and I’m sure it will all go well. We have planning approval in the bag, we even have a number of customers lined up for next year’s opening weekend—including you and your brother, of course, as guests.’

Jarji inclined his head in acceptance. He hoped for Henry’s sake that this did go according to plan. The man was from a noble family and he and his hedge fund had proved useful in the past but Jarji’s brother was not a man to suffer any kind of failure, even from a man Jarji had been friendly with for over twenty years. They had become friends in university—Ichkit had insisted his younger brother receive a good British education. However, that youthful friendship and Henry’s past usefulness would not protect him should Ichkit feel disappointed. He did not like to be disappointed. The name Ichkit meant ‘sudden’. If there was any unpleasantness, then Henry would find out that Ichkit was well-named, for his punishment would be swift.