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.’
Findla
y 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.
Lying Dead Page 3
