Cold Grave

by Craig Robertson

  ‘I could get used to this sudden impulse for weekends away,’ he told her.

  All Rachel offered in return was a shake of her head as she led them to reception to sign in.

  ‘Hi, we’ve got a lake-view room booked in the name of Narey for two nights,’ she told the bespectacled blonde woman behind the desk.

  ‘Ah yes, that’s right. We spoke on the phone. How was your journey?’

  ‘Fine,’ Rachel told the woman. ‘We’ve only come from Glasgow so it took no time at all.’

  ‘Good, good,’ the receptionist replied brightly. ‘Now, let me get your key. You’re in Osprey.’

  ‘All the rooms are named after the area and the wildlife,’ Rachel whispered to Tony, seeing the look of confusion on his face.

  ‘How come you know so much about this place?’

  ‘I’m a detective,’ she answered. ‘It’s my job to know things.’

  The receptionist returned before Winter could question Rachel further and they took possession of the large wooden fish, with a key attached, that was offered to them. ‘It’s a great place you’ve got here,’ Rachel was saying enthusiastically, looking around her. ‘I’ve always meant to come. Have you worked here long?’

  ‘Oh, it will be nine years now,’ the woman replied. ‘It’s a smashing place to work, I must admit.’

  Rachel smiled again, thanked the receptionist and they made for their room.

  ‘Very nice,’ Winter hummed appreciatively as they got inside, the bottle of Prosecco on the table and the large double bed immediately catching his eye. But even they were quickly overtaken by the view across the lake from the floor to ceiling window.

  ‘Wow,’ he admitted. ‘Quite a view. I’m glad I brought my camera. You did well choosing this place.’

  Rachel didn’t answer. Instead she walked over to the window and gazed out at the expanse of lake and the island on the horizon. The lake circled in front of them, almost but not quite coming together in the distance, the island neatly in the middle between either shore, before the lake widened again beyond it.

  She watched a pair of ducks scudding low across the glassy surface of the lake, the waters rippled only by a trio of snow-white swans that were gliding gracefully at speed with fifty yards of wake behind them. It was a stunning scene but the beauty was lost on her. All the time, her eyes kept being drawn to the tree-topped skyline of Inchmahome as it blinked at her above the mist.

  She stared at the island, lured by its darkness and mesmerised by its secrets. A shiver ran through her that she tried and failed to suppress. She was well aware that Tony, obsessively fascinated as he was with capturing Glasgow’s darkest moments through his camera, would have a very different view of Inchmahome from hers. If only he knew what she knew.

  He had always had this thing about seeing beauty in death as he photographed it but Rachel had never been able to understand his thinking. For her, working on the streets of the no mean city meant death was anything but beautiful. It was ugly, and the more brutal the death, the uglier it was. She looked across the lake, beyond the serenity and splendour of the slowly swelling surface and saw only something hideous. She suddenly regretted their trip there, wondering whether they’d be better tucked up together in Highburgh Road instead. She was starting something and she had no idea where it would end – or even if there would be an end.

  Lost in her worries, she didn’t hear Tony sneaking back across the room until he was behind her and his arms slipped through hers. She was still shivering.

  ‘You cold? Want me to turn the heating up a bit?

  ‘Hm? Yes, please. Full blast.’

  ‘Paradise, isn’t it?’ he asked as he muzzled into her neck.

  ‘Yeah. Paradise.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘I just can’t sleep.’

  ‘Laurence, have you been taking your medication?’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Have you, Laurence?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Why only sometimes?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Sometimes I just don’t want to sleep.’

  ‘The dreams again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve been through this, Laurence.’

  ‘I know but it’s the lake. I keep dreaming about the lake. I just can’t . . . just can’t stop myself. It’s the time of year. It gets to me.’

  ‘Laurence, we are going to have to schedule something. I thought we were making progress with this but sense a relapse that could be quite damaging.’

  ‘You always want to schedule something. It’s not doing me any good. I can’t sleep and when I do sleep it’s worse. She’s there all the time. I can’t stop thinking about her.’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down. You don’t understand. No one can understand.’

  ‘Laurence . . .’

  ‘No. Don’t talk to me. Enough.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Glasgow

  ‘Christ, it’s freezin, man. It’s colder than a witch’s tit oot here.’

  ‘Tell me aboot it. My bollocks are like ice cubes, Pedro. How much longer are we gonnae stand on this fuckin corner?’

  ‘Telt ye already. Till we shift all this gear.’

  ‘Fucksake.’

  Pedro cupped his hands together, blowing on them hard in a vain attempt at heat, and glared out at Marky from under his hoodie.

  ‘Stop moanin, man, will ye? We’re makin good money so shut your hole.’

  ‘Am just saying.’

  ‘Aye, well gonnae no, Marky, eh? These student bastards are pure minted and they’re taking this stuff like it’s sweeties. We’ll be oot of here in nae time.’

  Marky smiled at that, a manic nodding driven by the cold and the thought of cold cash. His fake Lacoste trainers did a little Ali shuffle on the frosted pavement, a wee dance at the thought of soon being able to buy a real pair. The fact that they were making the dosh from the university poofters just made it all the sweeter.

  ‘Cool, Pedro, cool, man. I’m seeing a wee burd later and am gonnae need my dick in good working order. No gonnae be any use if it freezes and draps aff.’

  Pedro swore under his breath. Sometimes Marky did his head in.

  ‘Gonnae shut your moanin gub, Marky? Am wantin out of here as quick as possible anaw, man. But it’s no ’cos I’m worried about you getting your Nat King. We’re wantin to be oot o’ here afore someone sees us, know ah mean?’

  A muscle on Marky’s cheek twitched the way it always did when he was nervous.

  ‘Gilmartin’s boys?’

  ‘Naw, the Salvation Fuckin Army. Course Gilmartin’s boys. No exactly gonnae be chuffed if he hears we’re undercutting his troops, is he?’

  Marky did another Ali shuffle but this time it wasn’t one of excitement.

  ‘He’d go mental, Pedro. Absolutely radio rental. Just as well he disnae know, eh?’

  ‘Too right, Marky boy. Who’s this wee burd you’re seeing anyway?’

  Marky pulled himself deeper inside his dark grey hoodie, turning his head slightly away from Pedro’s flinty gaze.

  ‘Och, ye dinnae know her,’ he muttered, his feet dancing a slower beat.

  ‘Whit’s her name?’ Pedro persisted.

  ‘Disnae matter.’

  ‘Whit’s her name, ya wee nobber?’

  ‘Clarice.’

  Pedro snorted in disbelief, a malicious grin appearing on his unshaven face.

  ‘Clarice? That wee skanky blonde thing fae the Springburn that’s always got love bites aw o’er her neck?’

  Marky reddened, his cheeks marked by a furious blush that defied the cold.

  ‘Naw,’ he protested. ‘It’s no her.’

  ‘It fuckin is, innit? Ya dirty wee bastard. She’s hinging, man.’

  ‘She’s awrite. She puts oot; that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Fucksake, man, she puts oot for half of Glasgow. Just as well we’re making top dollar oot here �
�cos you’ll be needin it for clap cream.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Pedro could barely contain himself, a huge smirk stretching across his lean features as he wallowed in Marky’s discomfort.

  ‘Tellin you, Marky man,’ he laughed, ‘You keep shaggin her and ye’ll no need to worry about the cold damagin your tadger. Anyway, shut it. Someone’s coming.’

  ‘Sweet,’ Marky muttered, glad of the diversion.

  The dark figure coming towards them was on the side of the street sheltered from the streetlamp’s neon glow, seemingly taking advantage of its gloomy shadow. It was a young guy, fairly tall and broad, casting regular glances over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. Marky let out a little nervous laugh, glad to see the predictable nervousness on the part of the prospective buyer.

  ‘Sweet,’ he repeated softly, his hands rammed into the pouch pockets of his sweatshirt.

  ‘Awrite?’ the stranger asked, nodding his head at them by way of greeting.

  ‘Awrite,’ Pedro replied, taking a half-step back into the shadow of the corner and letting the stranger follow.

  ‘You’re the guys, aye?’

  Pedro and Marky exchanged quick self-satisfied glances. Aye, they were the men. Marky could almost smell the leather of his new Lacostes, and Pedro was happy they’d soon be done for the night, cash in pocket.

  Neither of them saw anything more than a flash of silver in the moonlight, a fleeting, gleaming glimpse that passed from the guy in the long leather coat to the pair of them. The man paid Pedro off first and then did the same to Marky before either could move. It was the first time that night that Pedro had felt any warmth and for a few dizzying seconds he liked the hot feeling that flared and tickled inside him. Marky was different: he’d felt the blade once before, remembered its sting and hated it instantly.

  The guy had turned and begun to walk away before it dawned on Pedro and Marky that he had left without buying anything. By the time they realised he’d taken the money and the gear from their pockets, it was far too late for them to do anything about it.

  Pedro clutched the hole in his stomach, the blood seeping between his fingers, and Marky giggled nervously, wondering how he was going to explain to Caprice that he probably wasn’t going to be able to see her that night.

  Neither of them were badly hurt; flesh wounds that stung and ran red but that had missed all the vital bits inside. If the stranger with the flashing blade had wanted it, they’d both be fighting for their lives. Instead, they had been given a painful warning and they knew they were out of the dealing business for good. At least it would be warm in the hospital.

  CHAPTER 4

  Twenty minutes after unpacking and Rachel successfully swatting away Tony’s attempts to christen the bed there and then, they were sitting in the Lake of Menteith Hotel’s Port Bar. Winter was happily sipping a large Balvenie DoubleWood and throwing occasional glares in the direction of the young couple who had possession of the seats nearest to the fire. His attempt at mind control failed to budge them.

  Rachel had a glass of Petit Chablis and was looking round at the goose-grey panelled walls and wooden floors, the framed photographs and sketches of yesteryear and the curling stone that was warming on the hearth. Her eyes kept wandering through the large windows to the lake and the island beyond.

  They’d sat there for twenty easy minutes, saying little but savouring the rare opportunity to relax, when Rachel looked up to see an older man passing the window, wearing a heavy jumper underneath a dark bodywarmer, a bobble hat snug on his head. He was carrying gardening tools and his breath froze before him. He seemed to be heading purposefully, if slowly, along the shoreline.

  ‘Right,’ Rachel suddenly announced. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  ‘A what?’ Winter asked unbelievingly.

  ‘A walk.’

  ‘You never walk. Anywhere. You don’t do walks.’

  ‘Well I do now. Come on, shift your lazy arse and get a jacket on.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘No. Move.’

  Winter shook his head incredulously and threw the last of the Balvenie down his throat, feeling it sting and soothe in one go.

  ‘Okay, whatever. But I’m beginning to think the real you has been abducted by aliens.’

  Their feet were soon crunching along the pebbled path that dissected the lawn in front of the lake, Rachel setting a fierce pace in the direction the old man had taken. As they swung anti-clockwise by the end of the hotel, the lake on their left, Rachel saw a bobble-hatted head nodding up and down by a bush some forty yards away.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ Rachel said casually as they reached the place where the gardener crouched. ‘Didn’t see you there. Nice day, isn’t it?’

  The man stood up, failing to conceal a groan of old age as he did so.

  ‘Yes, beautiful,’ he replied cheerily. ‘Bit cold for some, I suppose, but I like it. Not many people venture along here in this weather though. They tend not to wander too far from the bar.’

  Smart people, Winter thought irritably.

  ‘Oh no, it’s lovely out at this time of the year,’ he heard Rachel replying, not believing his ears. ‘We like to work up an appetite for dinner. I’m Rachel, by the way, and this is Tony.’

  ‘Dick Johnson,’ the old man replied, shaking off a glove and offering each of them his hand in turn. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  The man was in his mid-sixties and had a whiskery white moustache that reminded Winter of Tom Weir, the television presenter who used to do programmes about Scottish towns and the countryside – shows that always seemed to be repeated at two in the morning. Dick Johnson had a red whisky nose like old Tom as well.

  ‘How long have you worked here?’ Rachel was asking him.

  Johnson puffed out his cheeks, raising his eyes to the heavens as if counting, even though Winter was sure he knew to the day just how long.

  ‘Twenty-four years,’ he answered finally.

  ‘Twenty-four years,’ Rachel echoed with a sweet smile. ‘You must love it to have stayed here this long.’

  ‘Well,’ he looked almost bashful, ‘I do but don’t tell them up at the hotel or else they’ll be wanting me to do it for nothing.’

  The gardener smiled at Rachel and Winter could see that the old rogue was smitten – not that Winter could blame him.

  ‘Oh, I won’t,’ she laughed. ‘Although . . .’ she deliberated as if trying to work something out, ‘if you’ve worked here that long you must have seen all sorts of things, I’ll bet.’

  Something in the way she phrased it jarred with Winter. What the hell was she getting at? A look of wariness passed over the old man’s face as well and his eyebrows knotted in a measure of confusion.

  ‘Aye, I suppose I have,’ he said slowly. ‘Nothing too exciting though, mainly weeds and wildfowl. That’s how I always describe my job: weeds, wildfowl and water. Not that people stop to ask too often.’

  ‘All the Ws,’ Rachel laughed. ‘What about whisky?’

  A smile spread across his weather-beaten face.

  ‘Well, that’s the way I like my water best. A splash of it in a good malt.’

  ‘Tony likes a malt, too. Don’t you?’ she asked him rhetorically. ‘What was that you had earlier?’

  A rushed waste of a twelve year old, Winter thought moodily.

  ‘A Balvenie DoubleWood,’ he told the old man.

  Johnson nodded thoughtfully, as if to leave no doubt that whisky was due proper consideration.

  ‘Aye, a nice enough drop. Maybe a touch sweet for my taste but good and spicy too.’

  ‘Sounds like you know your stuff, Dick. Well, listen, we’re nearly done with our walk and I know Tony is going to fancy another whisky in the bar. Maybe you could join us for a wee half once you’re done?’

  The man smiled brightly at the thought and Winter could see that the prospect of a warm fire, a whisky and a pretty young woman was an easy choice to make after pottering about on th
e frozen shore all day.

  ‘Well,’ he hesitated, ‘Ella, my wife, will have my dinner ready. But . . . sometimes I take the long way home, if you know what I mean.’

  Winter sighed inside. He was never shy of sharing a drink with someone but he’d just rather not be sharing Rachel with this old geezer and his war stories. Rachel, however, in a sudden burst of unfamiliar sociability, had other ideas.

  ‘Great,’ she breezed. ‘Well, we’re going back now and Tony can set them up. What would you like?’

  Johnson thought about it for a moment before shaking his head wistfully.

  ‘Ah well, you can’t always get what you want. But I’d happily settle for a Glen Garioch. It’s a nice wee cheap half.’

  ‘Ach, sometimes you can get what you want,’ Rachel mock-scolded him. ‘What’s your favourite? I know it’s not the Glen Garioch.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Johnson deliberated. ‘They do have a 1975 St Magdalene that really hits the spot. It’s a whisky for high days and holidays though. I really couldn’t . . .’

  No, of course you couldn’t, Tony thought. Sly old bugger. He’d seen the St Magdalene on the malt vault list and knew it came in at £12 a measure.

  ‘Okay, what’s going on?’ he asked Rachel as they walked back towards the hotel, the whisky choice having been settled.

  ‘Going on? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Why are we talking old Tom Weir in for a drink?’

  ‘His name’s Dick and he’s a nice old man. Stop being such a grouch and show some respect.’

  ‘Rach . . .’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she cut off any further argument. ‘Do you fancy one of those St Magdalenes yourself?’

  ‘Well . . . I suppose I could be persuaded.’

  ‘You usually can,’ she smiled. ‘What are you looking so miserable about anyway?’

  Winter didn’t have a face that naturally inclined towards a smile. A grimace was his default setting. It wasn’t so much that he was never happy; it was more that his brain had never got around to letting his face know.