“Do you know Rory up at the main house?” I ask in an attempt to make conversation.
“I work for him,” Harry says. “I’m the estate’s handyman and ghillie and gamekeeper. Everyone multitasks on an island like this. We all have several jobs to try and make a half decent living.”
“Rory is lovely,” Theresa says, handing me my coffee and then curling into an armchair by the fire with her own mug. “If you’ve met him then you must have received an invitation to the dance this weekend right?”
I nod and sip at my drink.
“It’s the highlight of the social calendar,” she continues. “Great fun. Have you been to a ceilidh before?”
“Never. Rory’s promised to teach me some Scottish country dancing on the night.”
“Make sure it’s before he gets drunk then,” Harry laughs.
“So which jobs do you do then, Theresa? Do you work on the estate for Rory too?”
“No. I work for the local estate agency and solicitors part of the time and do a few shifts in the pub here and there as well. I’m also chair of the local environmental group. Storms like this show what amazing natural resources we have here. We could harness wave and wind power easily.”
I frown. “But you don’t?”
“Some of the properties and businesses on Farra have their own wind turbine like we do which is hooked up to a generator. Makes complete sense to do so. It’s only small scale stuff though. We’re trying to access government funding for grants to set up a community wind farm.”
Harry slumps back in a chair, clearly he’s heard this conversation one too many times. “Theresa is a big campaigner for community eco projects. That way the islands get to decide on the positioning of the wind or wave power farms as well as have control of any profits the schemes makes.”
“Profits?” I say. “You mean the wind farm would generate enough power for the island and then sell excess power back to the national grid?”
“Yes,” she nods enthusiastically. “Too right. With how windy this island is I figure we’ll stand to make substantial profits and all of that money will be ploughed back into community projects and helping islanders. There’s no way we’re going to allow the big companies to come in and build their own farms here. They only think in terms of maximising money. They’ll want to do things on a huge scale, ruin the flora and fauna of the island and all the profits will go straight to the shareholders on the mainland. It’s not right.”
“If the natural resources of the island are to be used,” Theresa continues. “Then it stands to rights that it should be the locals who benefit from that. Farra is a poor island with few employment opportunities, not exactly a centre of commerce and industry. Some other islands have set up community companies where profits are kept on the island for the islanders, they help to protect the way of life, the environment and help the locals. Admittedly with renewables many of the jobs created mostly require specialist skills and would mean people from outside having to come in and do that type of work. Those wouldn’t be suitable jobs for unskilled islanders but there would be plenty of jobs created which would be suitable for locals.”
Thoughts are beginning to form in my head. “Have you had large companies come in and try to build these wind and wave farms on Farra?”
Theresa waves a hand in dismissal. “Too many times but so far we’ve managed to keep them at bay.”
“Does the name GeoComm Scotia mean anything to you?” I ask, remembering who we discovered Flynn Garrison was doing some consultancy work for.
“Yes. I know all about GeoComm Scotia,” Theresa says with obvious distaste. “They make out they’re the good guys but in reality they’re far from it. They’re a specialist consultancy who help the big guys try to build wind and wave power farms on places like Farra. They’ve been here a couple of times on different projects.”
“Did you meet any of the officials? The people involved in their proposals?” I ask.
“We had a few meetings with then. They said they were keen to listen to what the locals wanted and try to work with us as much as possible. Said their proposals would be for the benefit of us as well as them. Like we believe anything they say.”
“Did they recruit people on the island to carry out research work for them? You know, check suitability of potential sites, geology that kind of thing?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” she replies. “Normally they flew in their own guys and put them up at the one and only posh hotel on the island.”
So people didn’t know Flynn Garrison was doing research work for GeoComm Scotia then. Does the fact Garrison was carrying out covert work on a highly controversial potential renewable power project have something to do with his mysterious death?
“Did you have much to do with Flynn Garrison?” I ask, looking first at Harry, who now has his eyes closed, and then at Theresa.
“Kept himself pretty much to himself,” Theresa replies and we both look questioningly at Harry, only to hear him let out a loud snore.
“The community is still stunned by the news of his death,” Theresa says. “He wasn’t popular and never attempted to join in no matter how many times the locals invited him to attend community functions. It’s all still a huge shock though. You don’t expect to have people being murdered in a place like this. OK, sometimes tensions can run high on these islands especially during the winter months. It’s dark and cold and can drive you a bit crazy. A cabin fever kind of thing you know? We’ve had a few punch ups in the pub over the years but nothing like this. It definitely couldn’t have been a local who killed Garrison. Must have been an outsider. Maybe it was one of these crazed stalkers or something. I know he’d been out of the spotlight for a good while now but people knew he lived here a lot of the time. If someone wanted to track him down on Farra it wouldn’t exactly be difficult now would it?”
I fidget in my seat. “I heard he was often seen around and about on the island with a woman and a child. Nobody seems to know who they are. Have you seen them?”
“Yeah, once. I was down on the beach on the far side of the island doing some eco project research one day and I saw him walking hand in hand with a woman. They stopped and kissed. I didn’t see any children with them though.”
“He’s married isn’t he?” she adds. “This woman I saw him with wasn’t his wife was she?”
“Have you seen photos of his wife in the papers or on websites?” I ask. “You recognised that the woman you saw wasn’t his wife then?”
“I didn’t see the woman on the beach close enough to see her face or be able to recognise her but I remember from the media coverage his wife is blonde. This woman had long dark hair.”
She pauses and then leans forward in her chair, concern in her eyes. “You don’t think his wife found out about the affair do you? Did she kill him or hire somebody to do it?”
“At the moment we don’t know what happened but if you do think of anything at all or remember something you think might be helpful then please just call round to the cottage and let one of us know. We’d really appreciate it.”
“Of course.” She nods. “It must have been something like that. I’ve lived on this island most of my life and I refuse to believe we have a murderer on the loose. Like I said, things like that just don’t happen around here.”
For a few minutes we’re both silent. The only sounds being the crackle of the fire, Harry’s snores and the storm outside which is showing no signs of abating yet. I glance at the clock. It’s gone midnight. If the storm doesn’t move on soon then the early morning flight to the island will end up being cancelled as well and who knows when Charlie and Martha will finally make it back to Farra.
“So what are you going to wear for the ceilidh?” Theresa asks, setting her empty coffee mug on the floor and leaning forward, linking her arms around her knees. “We’re about the same size. I can lend you something if you like?”
“That’s very kind and I might take you up on the offer but Rhona has invited
Charlie and I up to the Big House to try on some suitable outfits so I guess we’ll do that first and then take things from there.”
Theresa nods her understanding. “Charlie, that’s your work colleague?”
She must spot something in the look in my eyes because she adds, “Oh, I see, more than just a work colleague then eh?”
Glancing across at a still sleeping Harry she lowers her voice slightly then adds, “Can’t say I blame you there. I’ve seen Charlie around and about on Farra. He is rather gorgeous.”
I smile, feeling a little awkward. Yes, she’s right, he is gorgeous. But sometimes I can’t help wondering if my joining the agency and Charlie and I working together is asking for trouble. I mean, I love my job and, though I haven’t yet completely admitted it to myself and I certainly haven’t told Charlie, I think I love him too.
Theresa gets to her feet and jostles Harry awake. “Come on, sleepyhead,” she laughs. “Time for bed.” While Harry rubs at his eyes and tries to wake up enough to stand upright she rushes off to a cupboard and reappears in the lounge with a duvet and pillow.
Handing them to me she says, “Sorry, we don’t have a spare room but the settee converts into a sofa bed so you should be comfortable enough out here and we’ll leave the fire going too so you’ll have some warmth. Want a hand with setting up the sofa bed?”
I get to my feet. “No, thanks. I’ll sort it. I’ve already been enough trouble tonight.”
She waves away my protests. “Don’t talk silly. You’re most welcome here. It wouldn’t have been at all neighbourly to have left you down at your place with no power. Especially as you were alone.”
After a ten minute wrestling match with assembling the sofa bed I’m finally lying under the duvet in front of the fire, feeling toasty warm. Thankfully the sound of the wind is lessening and the rain has stopped. It’s two in the morning. Harry and Theresa have gone off to bed but I can’t get to sleep. Will Charlie’s flight be cancelled again?
I jolt awake to the sound of my phone ringing and immediately realise I have a crick in my neck and a throbbing headache. It’s light outside and sunshine is poking around the edge of the curtains. The storm has well and truly moved on. Finding my phone on the coffee table I click the answer button.
“Amber? Where the bloody hell are you?”
Chapter Nine
My head feels as though somebody is hammering inside it. I piece together last night. The headache could be from a lack of sleep. It might also have something to do with the brandy Theresa put in the numerous mugs of hot chocolate we had last night.
“Amber?”
My mind snaps back to the here and now and Charlie on the other end of the phone. Collapsing back against the sofa cushions I say, “Charlie? Where are you? Are you back on Farra?”
“Flight landed an hour ago. We just got back to an empty cottage, no note, nothing. Where are you?”
“Oh, er, I’m at the cottage down the lane. Harry came round last night after the storm took the power off and he invited me to stay the night here. This place has its own generator you see.”
I detect a definite edge to his voice as he says, “Harry? Who exactly is Harry?”
Ahh. He’s not happy. Jealous by any chance? Now he knows what it feels like.
“Look, I’ll come down and fetch you. Which cottage?” I can hear him walking about, picking up car keys, slamming the front door.
“Turn right out of the cottage drive then down the lane. It’s the first house you get to after about a five minute drive. Can’t remember what it’s called.”
“On my way.” The phone goes dead. Just like that. No pleasantries. Yeah, he’s definitely annoyed.
We’re half way back down the lane and barely speaking when Charlie pulls the 4x4 over into one of the numerous passing places which all the single track lanes on the island have.
“What were you thinking accepting an invitation from a stranger to go and stay at his cottage?” he says, his voice cold.
It probably didn’t help matters that when Charlie called at the cottage Theresa was still in bed so Charlie had only met Harry who was standing in the kitchen in tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt making a cup of coffee. Charlie had hustled me out of there without sharing more than a few words with Harry in the process. I confess I haven’t actually mentioned about Theresa yet. I know. I know. It’s petty but maybe I just want to see how he reacts, if he admits to being jealous.
“I told you to stay safe while you were here alone. Stay indoors during the storm. Candles and torch to hand. How do you interpret that to mean Amber please go wandering around the island in the middle of a storm with a strange guy?”
“Harry isn’t strange,” I say and earn myself another glare from Charlie.
“You don’t know what or who Harry is.”
OK. Maybe he’s not so much jealous as annoyed at me from a safety point of view.
Typical Charlie.
“His wife was with him,” I finally admit.
He turns to me. “Wife?”
I nod. “Yes. They both came round last night when the power went off. They said they had their own generator and insisted I accompany them back to their place where there was heat and light.”
“Where was this Theresa just now then?”
“Still asleep I think.”
“And you didn’t think to mention her before now?”
I shrug.
“You wouldn’t by any chance have deliberately forgotten to mention Theresa for a little while there would you?”
Damn. He’s far too perceptive sometimes.
I look out of the window and Charlie places a hand on my knee making me turn round. “Don’t I get a welcome home kiss?” he asks with a cheeky grin, clearly back to Happy Charlie now.
I fold my arms and look back out of the window. “No you don’t,” I reply sulkily.
He lets out a chuckle as he starts the car up again and we head back to the cottage.
“So what did you find out in Edinburgh?” I ask, settling into a chair in the tiny garden of the cottage. In complete contrast to last night the weather is now calm, clear and the sun bursting through the clouds is almost warm.
Martha is sitting next to me, Charlie is on the opposite side of the wrought iron table and chairs.
“Well, Carter Marston was most helpful,” Martha says as she pulls her hair into a ponytail. “We discovered Flynn Garrison was appointed as a consultant by GeoComm Scotia on behalf of another company to carry out a feasibility study on the island.”
“Feasibility for what?” I frown.
“Hydroelectric power,” she replies. “He’s apparently been surveying the mountains and lochs on the island for possible sites.”
“And this is all secret?” I ask.
“Yes,” she nods. “Though the fact he was carrying out this kind of work might be related to his death in some way.”
“Last night,” I say with a sideways glance at Charlie. “I stayed with a couple who live down the track towards the main road. The woman, Theresa, is involved with a group of islanders in looking to obtain government grants to harness wind or wave power on the island on a large scale. They want any such renewables operation to be community-owned so they have control over the where, when and how. Not to mention keeping any profits channelled back into the community and ensuring the work creates as many jobs suitable for the locals as possible.”
Charlie leans forward in his chair. “And this community group knows nothing about the hydroelectric scheme?”
“It seems not,” I reply. “If the hydroelectric scheme was to get anywhere it would first need planning approval and then everyone on the island would know about it so they can only keep it a secret for so long. I suppose the longer they manage to keep it under wraps the more chance the company in question has to build a case for the project.”
“Which is where Flynn Garrison probably comes in,” Martha finishes.
“You don’t think someone on the island fou
nd out and that’s why he died?” I venture.
Martha raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Does this look like an island where folks go around killing each other?”
“You should know better than to prejudge things in circumstances like this, Martha,” Charlie admonishes. “Maybe somebody suspected what Garrison was up to and followed him. They might have confronted him and a fight could have broken out and things got out of hand. We have to consider all the options.”
“So anything else to share from your little trip?” I ask, keen to know all the details and get the focus back on the case.
“The airport branch of the bank confirmed they had a standing arrangement with Garrison to withdraw large sums of cash,” Martha says. “He just had to provide them with a minimum of twelve hours’ notice. They had no idea why he needed such large sums of cash on a regular basis. The manageress did mention he was usually in a rush and had another flight to catch. That all fits with his usual travel patterns when he visited Farra. He got a flight from London to Edinburgh at around nine in the morning which would have given him around an hour to switch to a flight from Edinburgh to Farra which left at about eleven in the morning.”
“And his sister? You guys met with her?”
Martha nods. “Yes. She was understandably distraught over her brother’s death. Even more so when we explained why we were visiting her. She’d thought he’d died of natural causes. Swept out to sea in a freak storm. That seems to be the story his wife’s press agent is putting out to the media. Guess they want to keep the suspicious circumstances part out of the newspapers.”
“She said she never visited Farra. She used to be close with her brother when they were kids but since he became famous they didn’t see each other very often,” she continues. “A phone conversation here and there but not much more so she claimed.”
“So we’re still none the wiser as to who killed Flynn Garrison or why,” Charlie says.
Precious: A Humorous Romantic Cozy Mystery (Amber Reed Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency Mystery Book 2) Page 7
