by Karen Swan
He chuckled. ‘Look, there’s a shoot for the board of directors on the family estate tomorrow. It’s an annual bonding thing; it’s why I’m here. Come as my guest. My father’s dropped out anyway so we’ve got a free peg.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if ever there’s a time when Lochie drops his guard, it’s shooting.’
‘I’m not sure I want to be around that man when he’s armed.’
‘Have you shot before?’
‘Of course.’ She had made it a priority years back to excel at any sport in which clients liked to conduct business and as such was also a competitive tennis player, played golf off a seven handicap, understood the offside rule in football and was up to date on the new scrummaging rules in rugby union.
‘Good.’
‘No, not good. I haven’t got a gun with me and . . .’ Oh God, she groaned inwardly – not again. ‘I don’t have anything suitable to wear.’
‘It’s fine, you can wear my mother’s stuff. You look about the same size.’
Another stranger’s clothes? Borrowing yet again would make it a hat-trick! She checked her watch. It was not even eleven. No, if Louise could buy a plane seat and send up her kit on an afternoon flight . . . ? From the bleak account Skye had just given her of her new client, she couldn’t afford to let any kind of opportunity to bond pass her by; she had to find a way to reach him and bring him on side.
She looked back at Callum through slitted eyes. ‘You said it’s a proposition. What’s in it for you?’
He gave a bashful grin. ‘Ah, yes. Well, if, as a result of the shoot, you get Lochie on board, you have to come for dinner with me.’ He held his hands up defensively before she could speak. ‘Just dinner.’
She tried to consider her other viable options for getting Lochlan Farquhar to give her the time of day but he had thrown her out twice now and short of actually training the shotgun on him in his office . . . ‘Where?’
‘My local pub does a great shepherd’s pie. I’m afraid there’s no fancy romantic Michelin-starred—’
Across the courtyard, the door to Lochlan’s office opened and the man himself strode out – no longer in his running kit but a pair of jeans, a red checked shirt and a heavy navy cable-knit jumper. His stride faltered only momentarily as he caught sight of the two of them standing there talking like old friends, the scorn in his eyes apparent even from this distance to find her still on the premises, making a nuisance of herself.
‘Ahey there, Lochie!’ Callum called across.
But Lochlan didn’t even nod as he continued on his way to the malting house.
Alex could see Callum was right: nothing can get into a closed fist and she could see his cousin had no intention of opening up. If she kept breaking into his office, he would just keep on throwing her out. ‘The pub’s fine,’ she said, looking back at him. ‘But only if it comes off.’
‘Understood,’ he grinned, rubbing his hands together excitedly. ‘I’ll get the clobber sent over to you. Where are you staying?’
‘No need. I’ll have my own sent up.’
‘Well, where are you staying anyway? I’ll need to know when I come to pick you up for dinner.’
‘You’re getting ahead of yourself,’ she said wryly. ‘But it’s Crolinnhe Farm.’
‘Ah, the redoubtable Mrs Peggie,’ he said gleefully. ‘Have you tried her eggy bread yet?’
‘Her what?’ Alex couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose.
‘It’s the best on the island. Hell, no, best in Scotland! Ask for it for breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Absolutely not, it sounds disgusting.’
Callum laughed as she began walking off. ‘Honestly, Alex,’ he called after her. ‘You must learn to say what you really think.’
Chapter Nine
Islay, Saturday 9 December 2017
‘More coffee?’ a girl asked, offering to pour some from a thermos flask.
‘Thank you,’ Alex smiled, relaxed and happy in the brisk morning chill. She was dressed for the weather in her mossy tweed breeks, heather-topped knee socks, a spare pair of Mrs Peggie’s wellies, a camel V-neck sweater over a brushed cotton shirt, a matching tweed jacket and a brown felted hat with a woodcock feather at the brim. She could lie face down in the bracken all day and she’d stay warm and dry, which was saying something in these temperatures: yesterday’s overly ripe skies had ceded to a peaceful clarity by mid-afternoon and temperatures had plummeted overnight, so that she had been surprised by the hoar frost that stippled every blade of grass this morning. But the hovering mist had quickly cleared as she drove over the moors, the late-rising sun making the sky blush and deepening the purple tint of the far-off hills, the lochans unrippled by even so much as a whispering breeze.
She looked around her at the gathered group; it was high-spirited and gregarious, even at eight thirty in the morning. The beaters had already gone ahead with the dogs to the first drive as the guns (the name given to those shooting) sipped on hot drinks, everyone’s spirits high as they milled about on the forecourt of the Farquhar family pile, the gamekeeper making final checks before they set off.
Callum had offered to collect her from the guest house, but she had refused – the less he thought this was a ‘date’, the better; and besides, she was quite confident that Mr Peggie’s borrowed Class II Land Rover and Mrs Peggie’s directions would get her here without a problem. As it was, the eagle-topped, stone-pillared gates that heralded the entrance to the Farquhar estate, a straight three miles further up the road from the farm, could hardly be missed.
The carriage drive was extravagantly winding and long, and flanked with mature rhododendron bushes and fir-tree woods that offered only fleeting glimpses of the land beyond, the brownstone laird’s house positioned in a high-set clearing with lush lawns and missing only a piper and a grazing stag for the full Highland experience. In the distance, the silver waters of the Sound glittered in the pale sunlight, the boats that sailed on her just specks from here, rooks cawing from the bare-canopied, moss-cloaked birch trees.
She was introduced to Bruce McIntyre, who was not only the master blender at Kentallen and Skye’s father but, according to Sholto, the only non-family managing director on the board. He was exceptionally tall, his white hair as silky light as candyfloss and a warming moustache on his upper lip. There was only one other woman in the group – Mhairi MacLeod, a barrister specializing in company law; she had a still, contained manner, never moving or gesticulating unnecessarily and she spoke in a low voice that forced others to lean in and listen. Alex liked her on the spot and they had exchanged cards within minutes of meeting. They were all chatting with a man called Peter McKinlay, CEO of a plastics company in Perth, and Douglas Fives, the top dog at PWC in Edinburgh, when Callum wandered back over.
‘Well, everything’s just about set. Feeling ready, chaps?’ he asked, rubbing his hands together as the others heartily concurred. He looked handsome in his tweed breeks and jacket, a berry red fleece only just visible beneath his collar throwing flattering colour onto his cheeks. No doubt he knew it too, but for all his self-awareness and vanity, it was also obvious why he headed up the family’s wealth management division – he had an easy charisma that was often the difference between sealing a deal and not. ‘There’s eight guns in total today so we’ll all be able to travel in the paddy-wagon,’ he said, jerking his head towards the comically adapted stretch Landy with canvas roof and sides that had been fastened down today. They had already drawn pegs; she and Callum were on three and four, but she wanted to know where Lochlan would be. In fact, she wanted to know where he was right now as he hadn’t yet arrived.
‘Isn’t Sholto joining us?’ Peter McKinlay asked him.
‘Sadly not this time. You know what he’s like – never likes to miss a day in the field, but he’s in London at the moment. Unavoidable, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, it leaves a bigger bag for the rest of us,’ Douglas Fives chuckled. ‘Your old man gets trigger-happy when he’s o
n a run.’
Privately, Alex was pleased too. Given the flammable nature of Sholto and Lochlan’s relationship, it wouldn’t help her to have him hanging around; the less Lochlan associated her with him, the better.
Callum glanced over at her. ‘All good?’ he asked, fixing her with those piercing blue eyes.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ she said briskly.
‘Ready then, chaps? Let’s shoot,’ he said, laughing at his own joke.
‘Don’t we need to wait for Lochlan?’ she asked him pointedly. That was, after all, the point of her being here today.
‘He’s going to meet us at the first drive. He’s just got caught up with something . . .’ Alex bridled, wondering what that could be this early on a Saturday morning. It was poor form to miss the pre-shoot drinks. ‘It’s in the copse just beside his house anyway. It’s easier for him to meet us there,’ he added, leading them all over to the shoot bus.
But Alex had spotted another man coming out of the big house and waited as he strode over the gravel with the easy confidence of those to the manor born. She knew who he was by sight alone: he took after his father, sharing the same stocky build, good head of hair and a propensity for bold socks. (Sholto’s – at their meeting in Edinburgh – had been orange; his son’s today, easily visible at the top of his boots, were peacock blue and purple.)
‘You must be Torquil,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘Alex Hyde.’
‘Ah, Miss Hyde, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’ His voice was smooth but his manner reserved. He had none of his cousin’s abrasive hostility, nor his brother’s louche charm – in fact, he seemed the perfect antidote to them both.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too. I’m sorry our paths haven’t crossed before now.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve been in Edinburgh with the bank all week but I trust you’ve been well looked after by my cousin in my absence?’
Alex hesitated, not sure how much Sholto had told his own son about her presence here. ‘Let’s say it’s been an interesting start. And certainly immersive.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. We need a strong steer from someone who can see the bigger picture. I’m afraid once relationships begin to break down as ours has, it can be difficult to see clearly and objectively, which is obviously detrimental to the fortunes of the company.’
‘Well, I’m here to help.’
‘Are you two coming shooting or shall we leave you talking shop? It is the weekend, you know,’ Callum called from the back of the shoot bus, a hip flask in his hand.
Torquil sighed. ‘I take it you’ve been introduced to my brother?’
‘Oh yes,’ she smiled as they walked slowly across. ‘In fact, it was he who invited me here today.’
‘Ah.’
‘He felt it would be helpful for me to meet the rest of the board.’
‘Indeed. This is usually one of our more jovial gatherings, but after the way the last AGM ended, it’s badly needed. Hopefully this will go some way to restoring civil relations.’
They climbed in, tweed bottoms shuffling up the bench seats to make more room for them, and Callum slapped the side of the Landy hard, twice.
The gamekeeper, doubling as chauffeur, pulled away and they passed the house, following the drive as if to go back to the gates, but hooking a sharp left into the trees instead. In there, the road rapidly became a track, rutted and frozen hard, and the passengers had to grab at anything they could to keep from being bounced out the sides.
They drove like that for maybe a mile or more, the sun making only occasional forays to the forest floor, which was carpeted in pine needles and pillows of moss. Alex saw a red squirrel sitting on a high branch, a fir cone between its paws, watching suspiciously as they passed. Open moorland winked through the trees to their left side, the sea still shining but inching closer now, and when they finally emerged from the trees fifteen minutes later, the vista spread out like a book opened flat. With the sun in their faces, the mud track now gone, they bumped along the moor to the first drive.
‘Right, chaps,’ Callum said, jumping out first, his gun swinging in the battered leather slip over his shoulder. ‘Pegs one to four down to the left, near the tarn; five to eight leading up to the trees there. Alex, follow me,’ he said jauntily.
She wanted to say out loud that she wasn’t ‘with’ him – she saw a bemused look pass between some of the older men – but it didn’t do to make a fuss; they would only think she was protesting too much.
‘Callum, where is your cousin?’ she demanded as she strode alongside him. ‘You promised he would be here.’
‘And he will be – yes, he is. Over there,’ he said, looking around. ‘Ay-ay, and it looks like he’s not alone.’
He pointed towards a house, its elegant slate roof and tall chimneys only just visible behind a high flint wall. At the decorative wrought-iron gate, halfway along, Lochlan could be seen bending down to kiss a dark, curly-haired woman – her hands clasping his head as he kept his own arms pinned back to prevent his gun from slipping off his shoulder.
‘Christ, she must be freezing,’ Alex muttered as she saw the woman had just a bed sheet wrapped around her.
‘Oh, I imagine he’s been keeping her warm,’ Callum chuckled. ‘My cousin is a dark horse with the ladies.’
‘Not that dark,’ Alex snipped, turning away as she saw Lochlan pull himself free and make his way across the moor to them. ‘His affairs with the staff are well known and recorded.’
They walked along to the pegs and she busied herself filling her pockets with cartridges.
‘Morning, cuz,’ Callum called as Lochlan passed by. ‘Sleep well?’
Lochlan threw him – them – a silent look, and she was glad to see he was riled to find her there too. Throwing him off balance was going to be key with him; a little hole can still sink a big ship.
‘What’s she doing here?’ he snarled rudely.
‘She is Alex,’ Callum said pointedly. ‘And Alex very kindly agreed to make up the numbers seeing as Dad’s away.’
Lochlan moved off with a low growl and Alex watched as he walked to his peg one along – silhouetted in the sunlight and sure-footed on the rough terrain as though he knew every last clod on this acre, Rona walking to heel off the lead.
‘Relax. Your moment will come,’ Callum said, watching her watching him.
‘Oh, I know,’ she said with certainty just as, in the distance, they heard the whistle blow – indicating the start of the drive – and the beaters beginning to flush the game out, hitting the tree trunks with sticks, beating at the grass, blowing whistles and making trilling calls. Putting on her ear defenders, she loaded up the gun and took it off the safety, all poised to point and shoot, her eyes to the sky.
Within a few minutes, the first birds took to the air and she heard the pop-pops of the other guns. She waited for her own quarry to fly ahead, glancing down the line to see Lochlan bag four pheasants in a row and a snipe.
‘Here we go,’ Callum murmured beside her, his voice low with unusual intensity, as two birds tracked into the sky ahead of them. He brought the gun to his shoulder, Alex doing the same, and in the next moment, they both fired.
‘You were fantastic!’ Callum exclaimed as they headed back up the moor to the shoot bus.
‘Thank you. Although I’m rather offended you sound so surprised.’
‘You’re always offended by me.’
‘True.’ She couldn’t help but laugh. Perhaps she had been a little hard on him, but if he would only stop flirting with her, she could relax and become a lot friendlier. They walked side by side, breath hanging like steam puffs before them, their guns slung over their shoulders and the smell of gun smoke tickling the air. It had been a great start. She felt relaxed and warmed up now that the first drive was done.
‘How did you get on?’ Callum asked his brother as the group reconvened at the shoot bus.
‘Abysmal. I shot like a turkey,’ Torquil said, shaking his head.
&n
bsp; ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Peter said. ‘You did a better job than old Dougie here. At least you remembered to load up,’ he said pointedly.
‘You didn’t?’ Torquil asked, looking across at the accountant.
‘You promised not to mention it!’ Douglas laughed.
‘Missed a couple of absolute sitters,’ Peter deplored.
‘Yes, thank you! As I do recall, you were once guilty of something not so different yourself.’
‘Blood under the bridge, old chap.’
‘How about you, Lochie?’ Callum asked as his cousin made his way over, a closed expression on his face which Alex knew was entirely for her benefit.
‘Yes, not so bad.’
Or perhaps it was for everyone else too, she thought, noticing how the light mood dissipated with his presence? She watched as everyone shook hands with him but his absence from the meet-and-greet drinks had clearly been noted as a snub, and the smiles that did break through were stretched and formal.
‘Not so bad? You were making out like a bandit every time I looked,’ Pip, the gamekeeper’s girlfriend, exclaimed. ‘Rona’s near collapsed from all the picking up she’s done.’
Lochlan’s hand automatically reached down for the dog and she pushed herself against his legs, her pink tongue lolling from the side of her mouth as she panted heavily on the grass, her eyes bright.
Alex glanced down at Sam, the gamekeeper, picking up the birds that had been laid out in a square in the grass and loading them onto the trailer.
‘Well, it appears Alex is a crack shot too,’ Callum said. ‘She got all the ones I missed, as well as her own.’
Lochlan stared at her as though her success was a personal slight on his own.
‘Good for you, Alex,’ Douglas said. ‘I must say it’s nice to have another woman on the shoot for once.’
‘What are you trying to say, Doug?’ Mhairi asked tartly, but with a smile in her eyes.
‘I don’t understand why more women don’t shoot,’ Alex said. ‘After all, it’s a test of skill not strength.’
