Their Final Act

by Alex Walters

  'Alicia?' This was from Elizabeth who was gazing out of the bedroom window at the view beyond.

  'Our third guest. She's been here a few weeks.'

  'Is she–?' Jane stopped, unsure how to frame the question.

  'She's from the centre, like yourselves. It's up to her whether she wants to tell you her story. Just as it's up to you whether you want to share yours. It's your business. Some guests find it helpful to talk about their backgrounds. Others don't.'

  Jane didn't know whether this was intended as an invitation or a warning. 'It'll be nice to meet her,' she said.

  'She's just gone for a walk,' Munro said. 'I think she was a little nervous at meeting you. But I'm sure you'll get on with her.' The last sentence appeared to be directed at Elizabeth, who was still staring out of the window. 'Right, I'll leave you to it for a short while. If you'd like a shower, feel free. Otherwise, just have a bit of a rest and freshen up, and then pop back downstairs when you're ready. Then I can give you the tour of the rest of the farm.' She turned back to Jane. 'You should have a look at the view. You're really seeing it at its best today.' She ushered Jane into the bedroom, and then disappeared back down the stairs, humming a tune that Jane recognised but couldn't place.

  Jane's first thought was to try to talk to Elizabeth. The other woman seemed a little older and, Jane thought, much more streetwise. Jane was keen to know what Elizabeth was thinking about this set-up. Was it really everything it seemed, or was it too good to be true? But when she emerged from her room she saw that the other bedroom door was already closed. It seemed as if, for the present at least, Elizabeth had no desire to talk.

  Jane returned to her own room and walked over to the window. A green meadow ran down to a hedge, with a newly sown barley field beyond. From there, the land dropped away towards the waters of the Cromarty Firth. The firth itself was extraordinarily still, a large mirror reflecting the surrounding hills and the clear blue of the sky.

  To someone who had rarely ventured out of the city, the scene was breathtaking. Jane felt as if she could stare at it all day, slowly drinking in the details. The clusters of woodland, the scattered houses and bungalows that gave a human dimension to the landscape, the pylons, polytunnels and wind turbines dotting the countryside. The mountains in the distance, the summits still patched by the last lingering winter snow.

  She turned back to survey the room. Here too there were details she hadn't initially noticed. A vase of daffodils on the dressing table. Paintings on the wall which she guessed depicted local scenes – a woodland landscape and a harbour with fishing boats. Above the bed, there was an ornate crucifix and a large framed photograph which appeared to show an aerial view of the farm. On the adjoining wall was another, more intriguing, photograph. It depicted a young woman holding an acoustic guitar, standing in what looked to be a desert landscape, two men of a similar age standing close behind her.

  Jane crossed the room and peered more closely. The woman was clearly Netty Munro, perhaps twenty or so years before. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses and her long hair was black rather than grey. But the figure was the same, if slightly slimmer, and there was no doubting her expression.

  Jane walked back across the room and opened the wardrobe to unpack her small collection of clothes. Apart from the stack of towels on the top shelf, the wardrobe was empty and still seemed so when she'd finished hanging up her few items. It felt wrong, she thought. A wardrobe like this was designed to be full of clothes – thick jumpers and skirts for the winter, shorts and T-shirts for the summer, rows of shoes and accessories. She had barely anything, and the handful of clothes she possessed felt inappropriate whatever the time of year. Once again, she was feeling as if she'd arrived here only through some administrative error. Tomorrow, or probably even later today, someone would inform her there'd been a terrible mistake, and that she had no option but to return to the life she'd lived before.

  She shook her head, trying to drive away the fear. Time to go down, she thought, and find out what this place really held in store for her. She wondered about trying to have a quick shower – the showers in the centre had been too busy that morning for her to shower before she'd left – but decided she could wait till the evening. Perhaps use up one of her few changes of clothes before they had supper or tea or dinner or whatever they were likely to call it in a place like this.

  As she closed her bedroom door behind her, she saw that Elizabeth's was still closed. Jane already had the impression that Elizabeth was someone who did things in her own time and her own way. How well that would go down with Munro remained an open question.

  Jane made her way down the stairs, feeling awkward and ungainly. There was something about the stillness and calm of the house that made her feel, inexplicably, both welcome and out of place. The hallway was eerily quiet, the only movement the drifting of dust motes in the shafts of sunlight through the windows.

  All the doors off the main hallway were closed and, with no real idea of where to go, Jane made her way through to the kitchen. Munro was standing at the Aga, stirring a large cast iron pot with a wooden spoon.

  'Hello, dear,' she said, not glancing up from her task. 'I didn't expect you quite so soon.'

  'I'm sorry…' Jane began, taking the words as a criticism.

  Munro looked up and smiled. 'Don't worry. You're free to come and go as you please here. I just thought you might want more of a rest before coming down. I think our friend Elizabeth might be having a nap. She seemed a little tired.' She left the last word hanging, as if freighted with greater meaning.

  'She hasn't been down?'

  'Not yet. We don't need to disturb her. Would you like some more tea?'

  'Shall I make it?' Jane said, keen to be of some use.

  'That's very kind of you.' Netty gestured at the pot with her wooden spoon. 'I'm making some venison stew for this evening.'

  'Venison?' Jane had taken the kettle from the top of the Aga and was filling it at the sink. The sink was like everything else in the house. Old-fashioned, a little worn, functional. 'I don't think I've ever had venison. That's deer, isn't it?'

  Munro nodded. 'The centre told me that both you and Elizabeth were meat eaters. Not vegetarian, I mean. That's right, is it?'

  'Oh, yes. I eat meat.' When we were able to afford it, she added to herself. 'I don't know about Elizabeth though. I hardly know her.'

  'We can check when she comes down. I can rustle something up if she can't eat this. I hope you're not squeamish about the idea of eating deer.'

  'No, not at all.' Jane held out the kettle. 'Where do I put this?'

  Munro lifted the lid on one of the other rings on the Aga. 'There's fine.'

  Jane did as she was told, and went to fetch the teapot from the kitchen table. She was already feeling slightly intimidated even by this simple task. She'd forgotten till now that when Munro had made the tea earlier she'd used proper tea leaves, rather than the bags Jane was accustomed to.

  Munro had obviously registered her discomfort. 'Just tip the old leaves into that green compost bin by the sink. Then rinse the pot. When the kettle's boiled, pour a little hot water into the pot to warm it up. Then throw that out and spoon in the new leaves.' She pointed to the shelves to the right of the sink. 'They're in that blue container. Three teaspoons should be enough, if you then just fill the pot halfway with boiling water.'

  All this was more complicated that Jane's previous experience of making tea, which had essentially involved dropping a teabag into a mug. It sounded straightforward enough though. She busied herself following the instructions, hoping she was doing everything right.

  'That's perfect, dear,' Munro said when Jane had finally placed the teapot on the mat in the centre of the table. 'There are mugs in that cupboard and milk in the fridge. Let it brew for a few minutes and then I'll come and join you.'

  Jane sat herself at the table and watched as Munro finished preparing the stew. It was like no cooking she'd ever witnessed, let alone carried out hersel
f, concluding with the addition of half a bottle of red wine, various herbs and other ingredients that Jane couldn't even recognise. 'Dried juniper berries,' she had explained, in response to Jane's question. 'They add a scent and a kind of bitterness, I suppose.' Jane had nodded, accepting that, if Netty Munro said so, this must be a desirable quality in a venison stew.

  Finally, Munro slid the pot into one of the Aga's ovens. 'There. That can just cook away for a couple of hours, and we'll be ready for supper.' She sat herself down beside Jane and poured the tea, adding little more than a teaspoon or so of milk. 'You're feeling a little uncomfortable here, aren't you, Jane?'

  Jane hadn't been expecting such a blunt question. For a second she had no idea how to respond. 'A bit,' she said finally, her voice little more than a whisper. 'It's all very new.'

  'You're not the first, you know, Jane. A lot of our visitors feel like that at first. But you'll settle in. Everything I said was true. I want you to feel at home while you're here. And you're welcome to stay here as long as you wish.'

  Jane was silent for a further moment. 'I still don't quite understand why you do this.' she said. 'Letting strangers into your home, I mean.'

  'People are only strangers until you get to know them,' Munro said. She laughed. 'God, that's not the sort of stuff I normally come out with. But it's still true. As I said, Jane, I like to have a bit of life around the place. A few young people to liven the place up. It's generally worked out very well.' She paused. 'Once or twice, people have tried to take advantage. But I can handle that.' She took a sip of her tea and then continued, as if changing the subject. 'I'm not sure about Elizabeth though. I don't know whether she'll settle in. She strikes me as the independent type.'

  Jane nodded, wondering how to respond. 'She seems quite… confident, I suppose. Sure of herself.'

  'She certainly seems that,' Munro agreed. 'And that's excellent. As long as she's not too sure of herself.' She gazed down into her mug, as if thinking. 'So, Jane, shall I tell you about the farm?'

  'Please,' Jane said, doing her best to sound interested.

  'It's a working farm. A fairly large one. When I first bought it, I used to run it myself, but I'm getting a little old for that. I rent out most of it to one of my neighbours. He grows barley and wheat, and we've got some livestock on the lower fields.' She rose and walked to the kitchen window, beckoning for Jane to follow her. 'You see that line of trees. That marks the far boundary of my land. Then it runs round to those hedges over there.'

  'That's huge,' Jane said, thinking of the postage stamp gardens she had once envied.

  'Not compared with some of the places round here,' Munro said. 'But it's more than enough for me. I don't make a lot of money from it, but enough to keep ticking over, with the other stuff.'

  Jane didn't feel able to ask what the other stuff might be. She had already been wondering how someone like Netty Munro had been able to afford a place like this. Perhaps she'd find out eventually, if Netty chose to tell them. For the moment, Jane was happy just to accept everything as it came along.

  'I'll take you for a walk around the place in a minute,' Munro said. 'We should take advantage of this glorious weather while we can–' She broke off as the kitchen door opened.

  Jane turned to see Elizabeth standing in the doorway. She had clearly showered, her hair still damp and uncombed, and she was wearing a fresh T-shirt, emblazoned with a face that Jane didn't recognise. Elizabeth's expression seemed to be a mix of awe and accusation.

  'I've only just realised,' she said. 'It's been troubling me since we got here. Then I saw the picture upstairs. You are, aren't you?'

  Munro looked back at her, a faint smile playing on her face, as if she were amused at some game that Elizabeth was playing. 'I…'

  'But you are, aren't you? You're not Netty Munro. You're Natasha Munro.'

  8

  Slightly to McKay's surprise, the front doors were unlocked, though it was clearly some hours before the place would be open for business. He pushed his way inside and stood in the gloom, looking around. The place had once been a cinema, he assumed, though that had been before his time in Inverness. He remembered it going through various incarnations as a bingo hall and then as a succession of nightclubs that had seemed to generate more trouble than business. It had stood empty for lengthy periods, including for most of the previous couple of years. A few months earlier, after some delays on the licensing front, it had finally reopened, this time as a stand-up comedy club.

  McKay supposed there might be a market for that, though it wasn't his kind of scene. A couple of the local bars had run comedy nights, attracting decent crowds. The new owners, two brothers called Baillie, had a successful track record, already operating two other hostelries in the city, so McKay guessed they knew what they were doing. Even more remarkably, as far as McKay was aware, the Baillie brothers seemed to have no reputation for criminality. Maybe they were clean, or maybe they just hadn't been found out yet. As a cynical copper, McKay's inclination was to think the latter.

  'Can I help you?' a voice said from somewhere in the gloom.

  'I hope so, son. Though only time will tell.' McKay walked forward and saw a youngish man standing just inside the open inner doors. 'DI Alec McKay.' He waved his warrant card, knowing full well that the man was too far away to read it.

  'Police?' the man said suspiciously. 'What can I do for you?'

  'You are?'

  'Drew Douglas. I'm the manager.'

  'Good to meet you, Drew.' McKay walked past him into what was clearly the main performance area. There was a low stage running from the far wall into the centre of the room, surrounded by tables set out cabaret style. There was a bar stretching the length of the left-hand wall. McKay imagined the place might look quite glamorous when properly set up and lit. At the moment, it looked gloomy and slightly shabby, reeking faintly of beer.

  'Is there something you're after?' Douglas prompted from behind him.

  McKay turned, smiling. 'How's business? Not been open long, have you?'

  'Just a few months, yes. We're doing all right. Bit of a slow start, but now people are beginning to find out about it. Look–'

  'Nice to see something a bit different in the city,' McKay said. 'I'll have to give it a try some night. I like a laugh.'

  'You'd be very welcome. Look–'

  McKay could see that Douglas was growing nervous, afraid he might be about to be raided or have his books turned over. He wondered whether the club might have something to hide, but dismissed the thought, at least for the moment. Even if there was something dodgy going on, it was difficult to see how that might result in the death of one of its performers, here on a one-night stand. But, as with everything he came across in the course of an enquiry, McKay mentally stowed the thought away for later consideration. 'You seem to be getting some decent names performing here.'

  Douglas had clearly accepted that, whatever McKay's reasons for being here, he wasn't going to explain his presence until he was ready. 'Aye, not bad. It's a bit of a challenge when you're this far north. The acts don't realise they can fly up here more quickly and cheaply than they can get to a lot of places in the north of England. But we're gradually educating them. We've persuaded a few to make the trek up here after Edinburgh this year so we're trying to set up a bit of an event around that.'

  'Good stuff,' McKay agreed. 'See you had Jimmy McGuire on the bill last night. Not bad.'

  Douglas frowned, still clearly wondering where this was heading. 'Not sure Jimmy really counts as a big name these days. We didn't even have the confidence to stick him on top of the bill. That didn't go down well, as you can imagine. In fairness, though, he did a decent set and we reckon he brought in a few extra older punters. Those who remembered him in his prime.'

  'Dingwall and McGuire?'

  'Aye, Crap name, wasn't it? Different times, I suppose.'

  'So who was top of the bill last night?'

  'Maggie Laing. Up-and-coming. Done a few of those panel sho
ws on TV. Bit challenging, bit near the knuckle. Gets the men feeling uncomfortable sometimes. She went down a storm.'

  'Glad to hear it,' McKay said, without any obvious sincerity. 'Did McGuire enjoy her set?'

  'McGuire? Shit, is that what this is about? Don't tell me he's been causing some trouble. I was told he'd put those days behind him.'

  'Those days?'

  'The drink. He had a reputation for it at one stage. Not a good reputation.'

  'That right?' This was something that seemed to have escaped Jock Henderson's all-seeing eye.

  'Aye. A couple of years after the other guy – Dingwall, or whatever he was really called – got sent down, McGuire tried to make a comeback. He managed to get himself a few parts in daytime soaps and that sort of stuff, and then decided to make a solo comeback on the circuit. Just low key at first, till he found his feet. Dingwall and McGuire didn't really have a straight man as such, but if you've been part of a double act it's not easy to find your solo voice.'

  'I'll take your word for that. I've always had a solo voice.'

  'He went down pretty well at first,' Douglas went on. 'I mean, he's a funny guy. Good sense of timing. But he started to get a reputation for being unreliable. Used to knock back one too many before the show sometimes. It's not that uncommon. Helps overcome the nerves. Loosens the inhibitions. But the best ones either don't do it – at least not till afterwards – or know how to control it. Maybe McGuire needed a prop to replace his old partner, I don't know. But it affected him on stage. He began not turning up for gigs, or turning up late and, well, not in a condition to go on stage.'

  'But you booked him anyway?'