by Jeff Gulvin
‘We’ve had one in Balerno.’ Her eyes were suddenly conspiratorial. One of our helpers spotted a black panther.’
Connla smiled. ‘I know. I was just there. I saw Lydia on TV down in England. I drove up to speak to her.’
The woman looked impressed. ‘You’re that keen, then?’
‘Oh, yeah. I’m sorry. I should’ve introduced myself.’ Connla wiped a palm on the thigh of his jeans. ‘Connla McAdam. I’m a zoologist cum wildlife photographer. Big cats—pumas specifically—are my specialty.’
‘Just give me a moment, Mr McAdam. I’ll get someone to talk to you.’
Connla sat and waited, flicking through the newsletters and magazines. The SSPCA had a link with the FBI on something called First Strike. Apparently there was a theory that people who were violent towards animals were potentially violent towards people. Soon a pleasant-looking woman in her early forties came down the corridor and introduced herself as Mary Warren, the press officer, and took him to an empty office.
‘What can we do for you, Mr McAdam?’ she asked when they were settled.
Connla explained the situation to her and she nodded and smiled, then clasped her hands on the desk in front of her. ‘Well, actually there’re a number of people you could talk to. There’s John Williamson at the Royal Scottish Museum, or the people at the zoo. Then there’s Glasgow Zoo.’ She broke off for a moment and tapped her forefinger against the desktop. ‘You know what, though, if it’s the wild-cat sightings you’re interested in, there’s really only one man.’
Connla sat forward now. ‘Who’s that?’
Mary frowned, sucking her teeth. ‘We have a man in Perthshire,’ she said, ‘who’s logged every sighting there’s ever been in Scotland. We don’t use him officially, and he’s got something of a reputation with the police, I believe.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure what you’ll think of him, but he would be the person to talk to. I think he lives somewhere near Dunkeld. His name is Harry “Bird Dog” Cullen.’
Nine
IMOGEN MET DANIEL JOHNSON on the foothills of Corr Na Dearg, a good landmark which was easily recognizable to hill walkers. That is what they were today: a couple of hill walkers enjoying the splendour of the Western Highlands. Imogen felt a little naked without her horse, and wasn’t able to recall the last time she had actually walked here. It was different, however, and she thought she might do more of it, especially if she ever had company. It occurred to her that she was always alone in the mountains; the only people who had asked to come with her she didn’t want along.
She walked slightly ahead of Johnson, aware of every inch of the ground, every landmark along the trail, leading the way beyond the Seer Stone and the river to the Leum Moir. Here they rested, on the edge of Atholl McKenzie’s land, and Imogen sipped from her water bottle. Johnson was twenty years her senior, but he was fit, and he stood now and gazed up Tana Coire through binoculars. ‘There’s people at Loch Thuill.’
Imogen jumped up and took her binoculars from her pack. Johnson was right. She counted at least three dark shapes on the edge of the loch. ‘They don’t look like they’re fishing.’
Johnson lowered his glasses. ‘Let’s go and see, shall we.’
As they got closer, it was clear the men were not fishing. They had a tractor and a small trailer and Imogen looked hard to see if she recognized any of them. She didn’t. ‘They must be some of Atholl McKenzie’s labourers.’ She muttered it more to herself than to Johnson. They walked round the loch, Imogen scanning the sky for telltale black dots against the clouds. She saw nothing, though. The wind cut and the day was grey, threatening rain. The three men were working, although Imogen couldn’t tell what they were doing; they had some sort of fence posts and what looked like chicken wire in the trailer.
‘Saplings.’ Johnson nodded to the group of young trees on a flat patch of grassy land close to the loch. ‘They’re putting up wire to protect them.’
Imogen paused and looked again. ‘They look like larch,’ she said. ‘Strange place to plant larch trees. What d’you think McKenzie is doing?’
Johnson made a face. ‘I haven’t any idea.’
They walked on barely twenty paces and Imogen almost stepped on a dead lamb which lay half hidden under a slab of loose rock. She stood a moment and stared. Johnson followed her gaze and neither of them said anything. One of the labourers’ voices lifted from across the water as he shouted something to one of the others. Imogen stared at him, but he was bending down, tying a section of chicken wire around the trunk of a sapling.
Johnson was inspecting the lamb. ‘This was very young,’ he said.
‘They lamb late this high.’
‘I know.’
Imogen sighed then. ‘D’you think it’s been placed there deliberately?’
Johnson scratched his scalp. ‘It’s hard to tell.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s see if there’s any more.’ The three men were watching them now from across the loch. ‘Don’t point,’ Johnson went on. ‘But whereabouts is the eyrie?’
Imogen looked up the coire, bunched her eyes and scanned the uppermost crags.
‘There’s a little promontory’, she said, ‘straight ahead of us, about fifty feet from the summit, where those three crags stick up like fingers.’
Johnson followed her gaze and nodded.
‘The nest is between two small buttresses, well out of the wind.’
‘You didn’t see if there were any eggs, though?’
‘I wasn’t that close.’
He turned and looked beyond her to where the three men were still watching them. ‘Let’s walk round the loch,’ he said. ‘See if we come across any more dead lambs.’
They paced the circumference of the water but found no more carcasses. The labourers were bent to their work again, and Johnson glanced at Imogen. ‘I’d like to try and get a look at the nest. Let’s have a word with these lads, ask them if there’s a path up the cliffs. That way we might get an idea if they know about the eagles.’ They came full circle and approached the piece of ground where the men were busy with another section of chicken wire. A tall thin man in his forties seemed to be in charge; his limp black hair hung over his eyes and a cigarette was clamped in the corner of his mouth. He looked up as they approached.
‘Afternoon,’ Johnson said.
The man nodded and eyed Imogen, but didn’t speak.
‘I was wondering if you could help us,’ Johnson went on.
‘Oh, aye. Lost, are you?’
Imogen shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that.’ She smiled. ‘We were wondering if there was any way up and over the cliff face there.’
The man looked beyond her, narrowed his eyes, and seemed to stare at the rock, hazed in silver now with sunlight breaking the clouds. He looked at their footwear—both of them wore walking boots—and he nodded, as if in affirmation to himself. ‘There’s no path,’ he said, ‘but it’s not that steep.’
‘What’s on the other side?’ Johnson asked.
‘More of the same. Eventually the sea.’
‘Have you climbed it?’ Imogen took a small pace closer to him, and he looked at her again, then shook his head. He half-turned and spoke to one of his colleagues. ‘Hey, Donald. You’ve climbed yon wall there, have you not?’
The one called Donald, younger and red faced, looked up. ‘Aye. It’s no’ bad. Stick to the left-hand side as you look at it. It’s all big jugs and gullies. You’ll not have any bother.’
‘Are there any deer up there?’ Johnson asked.
The first man shook his head. ‘The odd goat maybe. Sheep perhaps, but no deer that I know of.’
‘Thank you.’ Johnson smiled, half turned away and then looked back again. ‘Tell me something else,’ he said. ‘Is there anywhere round here we can fish?’
The man laughed. ‘Not without a permit.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and thrust his chin at the waves breaking the bank. ‘You can fish right here if you get yourself a permit.’
‘From Mr McKenzie?’
Imogen asked.
‘Aye.’ He paused then. ‘There’s trout in the loch now. Most of the season’s booked up already, though. You’ll have to wait till next year.’
Johnson nodded, smiled and pointed to the trees. ‘Is that larch you’re planting?’
‘Aye.’ The man glanced behind him. ‘We’ve a few to put in the ground. This’ll be a bonny place for a picnic next summer. If you can afford the permit.’
They thanked him and turned again, walking back the way they had come, round the loch to the foot of the cliff. ‘There is a path,’ Imogen said. ‘And it’s a walk not a climb. That Donald doesn’t know what he’s on about.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘Just go where I go.’
They made their way up, Imogen glancing back every now and again to check the activities at loch side. But the men were busy, their heads bent, working away at the wire. She paused halfway up to rest and indicated the promontory, temporarily hidden from view now. ‘They don’t know about the eagles,’ she said. ‘I reckon that lamb’s just one missed by the foxes.’
Johnson looked at her. ‘You think they’d have said something, then.’
‘Don’t you?’
He made a face. ‘Farmers aren’t going to broadcast it if they’re killing birds of prey.’ Imogen stared at the rock between her feet. Her hopes had been high for a moment, but Johnson’s caution checked them. ‘Come on. I’ll show you the nest,’ she said.
They climbed on until they got to the point where she had spotted the eyrie. Looking diagonally up and right she caught a glimpse of brown feathers lightening the black of the rock. The sun had gone in again and the first spots of rain began to patter the stone around them. ‘There,’ she said quietly. Johnson followed her gaze and gave a low whistle. ‘They’re nesting all right,’ he said. ‘And that’s a very large male.’ He scratched his head, took a notebook from his pocket and jotted down a description of the location. He wriggled out of the straps of his backpack, set it on a ledge and then bent to retrieve his camera. Imogen scanned the valley below. She could see for miles, well beyond the three labourers who had loaded up their trailer and were heading down to the clutch of farm buildings that nestled in the cone-shaped valley in the distance. Behind her, Johnson was screwing in a zoom lens. He took half a roll of film of the birds, the nest and their immediate vicinity.
‘What do you want to do about it?’ Imogen asked him.
He sighed. ‘Nothing. I think you’re right, Imogen. I don’t think the farmer knows. The nest looks freshly assembled. The pair are young; this is probably their first year together.’ He glanced back down the mountain. The tractor was almost to the first stand of pine trees and in a moment or two it would be out of sight. ‘How often can you come here?’ he asked her.
‘Within reason, as often as I want.’
‘Would you be prepared to keep an eye on the nest, say, once a fortnight for a while?’
‘Of course.’
He smiled. ‘If anything changes we’ll speak to McKenzie. But what he doesn’t already know, I don’t think we should tell him. At least not at the moment.’
Imogen sat in her lounge the following evening with a small fire burning in the grate. She didn’t need the warmth particularly, although the wind that whipped across Loch Gael could be raw, even in summer. A cup of coffee steamed on the small round table beside her and outside the evening was waning. Light rain spattered the windows, creating tiny vertical rivers. The glass was always clean; she didn’t consider herself particularly house proud but the windows were a priority. Without them there was no light and no view of the loch and, to her, light and views were everything.
Earlier in the day she had finished the painting of the eagle—very simple, in watercolour, a moment in time as it flew above the loch. She stared at it now, set on the chair opposite—the hooked yellow bill and the way his talons hung beneath him in the glide rather than up and back as he soared. She remembered the words of her tutor at college: ‘Choose your brushes carefully. Use a palette knife, if you want to. Think. You don’t paint a picture, you write it.’ She knew exactly what he meant: to capture the life, the soul, the story that was in a painting. She always experienced a tingle of delight when a composition like this came together so quickly. But the delight was blighted. She knew Atholl McKenzie, and the powers of the RSPB or the police would be an irrelevance to him if he decided that raptors were harming his living. He wouldn’t care if they were white-tailed sea eagles or sparrowhawks, he would get them off his land.
Her attention strayed to the TV. Another walker had gone missing in the Cairngorms and the mountain rescue teams had been out looking for him. He had left details of his Monroe trek in his car, so they should find him. She shivered then, remembering the lecturer from Stirling University who had been missing for four days. He, too, had left details of his route in his car, but then he had deviated from it. The mountains in Scotland were dangerous—far more dangerous than many people thought—and more walkers than actual climbers lost their lives because they didn’t take enough care. It happened every year, winter and summer. The man from Stirling had fallen into a gully, and the search was within twenty minutes of being called off when he was spotted by the RAF helicopter as it made one final fly-by.
Imogen stared at the screen now, hoping they would find this man alive, and soon. She was aware of aged emotions and knew she really ought to avoid watching the news. Her gaze dulled and she no longer saw the screen. The newscaster’s voice became a drone, and the drone a rumble in her ears, and the sound was the rushing, tumbling, terrifying Salmon River. And Ewan was missing. Her mother’s fractured features, the pale fear in her eyes. Connla McAdam, sullen and silent on his log, and her father, crooked and stooped as he stared over the edge of the bluff.
Imogen stood up suddenly, hugging herself and pacing a moment before the fire. Her mother’s emotions, and those of her father, had been separate from one another, separate from her own. There was no shared grief, no mutual comfort in their loss; each of them faced it alone. That was fine for them, independent of one another, if that was how they chose to deal with it. Father and mother feeling different things, experiencing differing moments of memory. But Imogen had been only eight and she, too, had had to face it alone. Her eyes were the first to see him, washed out, broken beyond repair, a husk of a person, lost to the Salmon River.
Neither of them hugged her, neither of them held her—not right then when it really mattered, the moment in time when her fear was at its height. Later, perhaps, when it didn’t really matter, dreaming and waking in the night, the dark and the silence and night outside the window. She didn’t need the comfort then. When she had needed it most, all the years of trust she had placed in her parents had proved to be false.
And it was always the same when someone was lost in the hills; she would sit there, watching and hoping that whoever it was would be found, because if they were not, then perhaps … She shook the thoughts away as the images from childhood began to swell again, pressing the fragile walls of her mind. She picked up the coffee cup, sipped from it and reached for the remote control. Silence descended immediately, save for the crackle of salty logs on the fire.
At eight thirty, she got in her Land-Rover and headed up to the field. Keira needed settling down and would be looking for her hay net. Darkness was falling as she parked beside the broken gate. What was left of the sun dipped in the west beyond Skye. A distinctive engine note rumbling up the hill from the other direction told her it was MacGregor, and Imogen waved to him as she vaulted the gate. He slowed, but she was already halfway to the stable. He gunned the motor and drove on. Imogen fastened the hay net and stroked Keira’s nose, delighting in the sudden breeze that broke through the empty window.
There was a movement at the door. Keira snorted and Imogen turned sharply. Patterson stood there, shoulders hunched into his neck, hands rooted in his pockets, his smile almost a leer. Imogen lifted a hand to her throat. ‘Colin,’ she said, ‘you startled me.’
<
br /> He looked at her, said nothing for a moment, then smiled again. ‘I was just out for a wee walk. I saw your car, so I thought I’d say hello.’
‘I’m just on my way home.’
He nodded. ‘Was that John MacGregor I saw going down the hill?’
Imogen looked at him now, her head slightly slanted. Something in his eyes unnerved her. ‘Aye, it could’ve been.’
‘Did you see him then?’
‘Not to speak to, no.’ She adjusted the strings on the hay net.
‘I thought he might’ve stopped.’
She turned again and he was staring, eyebrows stalked, eyes full and round.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, come on, Imogen. John’s got a crush on you. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’ Imogen was aware of the blood beginning to pulse at her temple. She stared coldly at him.
‘I’m sorry.’ Patterson held up his hand. ‘But it’s true, isn’t it.’
Imogen stood with one hand on her hip now. ‘Whether it’s true or not, Colin, I’m not sure I understand why it’s any business of yours.’
He stared at her then, colour burning his cheeks. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, of course. You’re right. I’m sorry.’
She took a pace towards the door. He stepped in her way and took her by the upper arms. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Really. That was rude of me.’
Imogen stood there, just a little uneasy now. Behind her, Keira sensed it and snorted, looking back at them with her eyes wide under the fall of her mane. Patterson still held Imogen by the arms. She shook his grip away. ‘I’ve got to go, Colin. I’ve already had one indirect lecture about being alone here with you.’
He stared at her then, shock standing out in his eyes. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Jean Law.’ She stepped past him, aware of the smell of sweat on his body, as if he had been running not walking. And then she knew. He had seen her car, then seen MacGregor’s and ran all the way up here. No wonder he was sweating. She could see the redness about his eyes close up, hidden initially by the shadowed interior of the stable. ‘Jean told me your wife had a few words with her in the post office.’
