'Would it make you feel any better if I did?'
His head shook slowly. 'Not in the least.'
'Then I won't.'
He smiled gently and to her surprise, briefly touched his hand to her arm, accepting her quiet sympathy with good grace. 'Thank you,' he said.
He took a deep, cleansing breath before returning to the business for which she had been summoned. 'Put those in the recycling will you…' he said indicating a collection of hundreds of magazines piled in a precarious hip high stack. 'And these books…' He pointed to several piles on the floor. 'Find some boxes and take them down to the dump or the charity shop, whatever you want. I don't want them any more.'
'There aren't any valuable ones are there?' she asked, examining the heap. 'There's a market for old books, you could sell them you know.'
'No, just get rid of them. If there's any you fancy, you can have them.'
'Thank you. That's very generous.'
He rearranged the books into a steadier pile and Megan glanced over at the strange cupboard again. 'Can I ask you?' she said, pointing at it. 'What's that?'
'What?' He saw where her hand pointed. 'Ah, that's a gun cabinet.'
'Guns?' She felt a tell-tale twinge of alarm. She didn't like guns.
'I have a pair of shotguns,' he replied with nonchalance.
She looked apprehensive. 'Are you allowed to have them in the house? Is it safe?'
'Perfectly. I'm all legally licensed and they are well locked up. Everyone around here has guns. They are rather nice. Would you like to see them?'
'Erm…' she hesitated, unsure if a refusal would offend. 'Not if it's any trouble.'
'None whatsoever.' He dug in his front trouser pocket and pulled out a well-loaded keyring. At his desk, he unlocked a small drawer. From it, he withdrew a small metal box. Another key on his keyring unlocked that, and inside was a third set of keys and he used those to release the guns from their secure holding place.
There were two and they looked identical. He took one out, broke the barrel to ensure it was not loaded and showed it to her. When they were both satisfied of its safety, he joined it together again with a metallic click and held it out to her.
She had never touched a real gun before and took it carefully in her hands. Its weight surprised her; she reckoned it at around seven pounds, maybe more, and it was beautiful.
The polished barrel shone like a silken mirror and the stock was an exquisite burred walnut. The metal panels had been engraved with tiny, detailed images of foliage, rabbits and birds and there were words neatly engraved in a small scrolled panel - Holland and Holland - the maker's name, one of the most prestigious in the country.
Not merely a weapon, this was a work of art. She turned it over in her hands to see all its aspects. It did not disappoint.
'It's so beautiful,' she said, breathless with admiration.
'They're second hand unfortunately,' he explained, 'but they're hand-made and I was lucky to get them. They're a fine pair aren't they?'
'Indeed.' She ran her fingertips over the engravings, appreciating the subtle delicacy of the work. The etching was so fine and clear, the images might well have been photographs.
'Look at this incredible workmanship,' she said, her voice low with respect. 'It must have taken an age to do. They're absolutely amazing.' She tore her eyes from the gun and looked up at Nat, who appeared to be enjoying her appreciation of his toys.
'I don't want to be rude,' she said, 'but I have to ask. Were they expensive?'
He shrugged. 'Not really for what they are - only fifty five thousand.'
She was astonished. 'What…lira?'
'Pounds,' he said. 'And that's each, remember. They're always sold in pairs. Those babies cost me almost as much as the Range Rover.'
She was astonished. 'That's over a hundred thousand pounds! You paid a hundred thousand pounds for a car?'
'I could have paid a lot more for both,' he said, untroubled by her incredulity. 'Guns like these are an investment. The car is a necessity.'
And someone not a million miles from me has more money than sense, she thought.
'You hold it like this,' he said, moving behind her and reaching his arms around her, pressing his chest and belly against her back. She could feel his body heat through his shirt and smell his cologne. Her pulse and respiration quickened; imperceptible to him, but very noticeable to her.
He helped her position the gun so that the stock rested against the fleshy front of her shoulder. With one hand he guided hers to support the gun from underneath, and with his other placed her finger on the trigger. As soon as it touched the cold metal, Rebecca's voice echoed at her.
'More than once I thought he might top himself,' she had said. 'He used to have a shotgun, I think he still might, and I played it out in my head, over and over, what I'd do if I came in one day and found him dead …'
Quite clearly, inside her head, she heard the resonating blast from the discharging weapon. She gasped audibly and an involuntary shiver ran through her. Nat felt it and pulled away to put his hands on her shoulders. 'What's wrong?' he asked.
She shook her head and tried to swallow down her fright. 'Would you put it away now please?' she said, holding out the gun for him to take.
'Sure.' He took it from her, puzzlement on his face. 'What's the matter?'
She couldn't tell him she had just had a mental picture of him slumped in his chair with half his head blown away, blood and brains splattering the walls and ceiling. Her stomach writhed and she felt sick. 'Nothing,' she lied. 'Please…will you put it back in its box and lock it up?'
He did as she asked and she paid close attention, ensuring all the locks had been properly secured. 'Okay now?' he asked.
'Yes, thank you.' She gave him a small, relieved smile. 'I'm sorry to be bothersome.'
'No, it's my fault,' he said, 'I shouldn't have given it to you. I didn't think it would frighten you.'
She shook her head. 'No…no it's not that. I wasn't frightened of it. I was admiring it as a work of art and not fully appreciating the fact that you could actually, really kill someone with it.'
'You can rest assured I've never killed anything with it,' he said. 'Not so much as a rabbit. It's just for clays and that's perfectly harmless if noisy fun.'
'Well, that's alright then,' she said, unconvinced.
'Would you like to have a go? I'll take you if you like, if you're interested. You can try it for yourself.'
She shook her head again. 'Thank you, but no. It's kind of you to offer and I appreciate it.' She began to edge her way towards the door. 'I'll, er, go and find you those boxes, shall I?'
She turned and left the room and crossed the hall without so much as a backward glance. It was a long time before she returned.
Chapter 5
One afternoon, not long after the incident with the shotguns, Megan was standing at the kitchen sink, peeling vegetables for Nat's evening meal. He was filling the coffee machine and they were chatting as they usually did. In the background the radio played. She liked the radio on as she considered the house far too quiet. He tolerated it as a gesture of good will, so long as it was not too loud or interfered with his work.
In the middle of a sentence, she suddenly stopped speaking and stood absolutely still, her eyes glassy and staring somewhere into the wall, seemingly seeing nothing.
Curious, he went nearer to get a closer look. To all intents and purposes, she had gone into a trance. Her pupils had dilated and she seemed completely transfixed. She was listening intently to a slow, melodic love song, its subtle drum back beat accompanied by a mournful cello and the male vocalist, deep and mellow.
An ethereal instrumental began. It built in intensity, rising suddenly to an orgasm of sound, and she inhaled deeply as the music filled her. Her head fell back and as her eyes closed, a large tear slipped out from under the lid and slid slowly down her cheek.
To Nat, it could have been any song played on any radio a hundred times a d
ay, but for her the music was literally enchanting and he couldn't draw his gaze from her. He had never before seen such an intense reaction to a piece of music and it both fascinated and frightened him in equal measures.
After just over four minutes, the song ended and she drifted back. She blinked, inhaled sharply and quickly wiped the tear away with the side of her hand.
'Are you all right?' His enquiry was a mixture of confusion and concern.
'That was so…' Her voice had a dreamy quality to it, as if she had just woken from a deep sleep. She took another sharp intake of breath and snapped back into ordinariness. Her pupils had returned to normal size.
'I'm sorry, were you saying something?' she said, seeing him still staring at her.
'No. Not really.'
His attentiveness began to unnerve her. 'What's wrong?'
'With me? Nothing.' He frowned perplexedly at her. 'Megan...where did you go?'
'What do you mean?'
'Just now. You were listening to something, a song, on the radio and … I can't find any other way to describe it, but it…it took you away. You weren't here.'
She laughed softly, dismissing his concern. 'Oh that. It happens sometimes. A tune will reach right in there...' She tapped the side of her head with her finger. '...and take over.'
'What was it…the song? Why was it so special?'
'I don't know, I've never heard it before, but I certainly hope I get to hear it again. It was quite lovely.'
She inclined her head to look around him at the gurgling coffee machine. 'Coffee's ready,' she said, and returned to her vegetable preparation as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.
On the way back to his study, Nat glanced at the illuminated radio display and made a note of the station. A short telephone call later, he had the name of both the artist and the song.
Megan's reaction to a simple tune had left him baffled, but now he thought he understood why she had behaved as she did when he gave her the gun. She was a sensitive soul and anyone who reacted as she had to a piece of music had to have something special deep inside them. He had seen a different side to this woman who had breezed wet and cursing into his house, and he felt strangely comforted by it. He had only known her for a few weeks but already felt he could trust her completely and that she would not let him down.
Two days later Megan arrived at work to find a CD case on the kitchen table with a note attached that said simply,
'Enjoy. N.'
She opened the case, and halfway down the playlist, a song title had been highlighted in bright yellow. She smiled, delighted with her gift. He had clearly made the effort to go out and find this for her simply because he thought she would like it.
'That was a very generous thing you did,' she said when he came in for coffee.
He took his seat at the table. 'It's a scurrilous rumour, I deny everything,' he said. 'What did I do?'
She placed his coffee in front of him. 'The CD, silly. How did you know which one it was?' She took a new box of biscuits from the cupboard, tugged off the lid and placed the box on the table.
'Deduction my dear Watson,' he said, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. He peered into the box.
'You didn't have to go to all that trouble.'
'It was nae bother,' he said. He picked out one biscuit, changed his mind, opted for another, and then for good measure, took two more. Megan snatched up the lid and put it back on the box, curbing his greediness. 'Why?' she asked.
'Because you liked it, it meant a lot to you,' he said. 'And to be honest, Meg, I've never seen anything like that before; it gave me the willies. It must be one hell of a special thing to affect you like it did, and you should be able to enjoy it whenever you want to.'
She smiled as she realised, for the first time, he had called her Meg, not Megan or even the comical Just Megan. She found she liked it. She liked it very much. 'I'm really touched,' she said. 'You're very thoughtful. Thank you.'
'Thoughtful, moi? Hmm.' He dipped his biscuit into his coffee. 'Not my usual epithet, so don't spread it around. Somebo
dy might think I've gone soft.'
Chapter 6
Nat drove out of the gates of Struan Lodge and took the road leading directly to Aberdeen city centre. It was a good twenty-five mile drive, but on that clear, frosty morning, in a warm, comfortable car, the journey was not unpleasant. The countryside droned by mostly unnoticed. Driving almost on autopilot, he had his mind on other things.
He was running through his head the details of how he would best pitch his proposal to a new client he had arranged to meet at his rented office in Albyn Place. He anticipated a quick meeting. For the rest of the day he had planned a pub lunch, a short walk onto Union Street for a new pair of shoes – and home again.
As he thought of home, his attention immediately dwelled on Megan. The charismatic woman, who had only been in his employ for a few weeks, had begun to change things and only, as far as he could see, for the better.
Her presence in the house had had an influence on him. Every morning, without fail, she greeted him with a smile and enquired, 'How are you today?'
She listened good-naturedly to his moans and grumbles, of which there were plenty, doing her best to cheer him up if she could and intuitively leaving him alone if his mood warranted it. He smiled as he thought of her.
Sensitive and thoughtful she might be, but she took no nonsense from him, no matter how difficult he could be and she wasn't afraid to put him in his place when she thought he needed it, which, he had to admit, was fairly often.
She had intriguing blue eyes; bright and intelligent. They fascinated him. They gave the impression of being able to see right into him and read him like an open book. She always seemed to know exactly how he was feeling and adjusted her behaviour accordingly.
He imagined he could smell her perfume, subtle and familiar. He couldn't quite place it exactly, but it was definitely something floral and it reminded him of the old-fashioned roses in his garden…
He snapped out of his daydream and back into the real world as his reflexes took over. Both his feet were stamping the brake pedal right down to the floor.
'Jeeessuuus!'
There came a dull thud from outside and the car screamed to a halt, coming to rest in the opposite direction of travel and on the wrong side of the road. It rocked violently sideways with the inertia, its brakes and tyres smoking, a fine trail of black rubber having been laid in a sweeping arc on the tarmac.
Inside, Nat sat motionless, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He exhaled a deep, shuddering breath. The diesel engine was still running, but it struggled to be heard over the pounding of his heart. He pulled on the handbrake, slipped the car into neutral and stepped out. The sour odour of burning rubber hung over the road.
He had no idea what had happened, but he was certain he had hit something. He bent down to examine the front of the car to find a small patch of blood and hair attached to the grille covering the fog lamp. Frantically he looked around, but saw no sign of a body, human or otherwise, anywhere on the road.
He checked the deep muddy drainage ditch that ran down the sides of the road. There was nothing. He returned to the car to take a closer look at the patch of gore and breathed out a white cloud of relief as he recognised it as deer hair.
There was no sign of an injured animal. The car had probably struck it a glancing blow and it had run off, too shocked to feel its wound, making off over the fence and into the undergrowth before he had even seen it. There was nothing he could do about it now.
He said a silent prayer of thanks for there having been no other vehicles on the road. Help for an accident out in the sticks was a long time coming and most casualties didn't make it to hospital in time, even if they were ferried there by the Air Ambulance.
Finally satisfied there was nothing more to be done, he manoeuvred the car back into the right direction and continued his journey. He checked the clock. P
roviding he kept his eyes on the road ahead and didn't get distracted again, he shouldn't be late.
He didn't really need the office, but it gave him a professional image. In addition, it was somewhere he could control who he saw and when he saw them…or not. He didn't want people calling unannounced on his own front doorstep.
He was in plenty of time for his meeting; his client had not yet arrived and he settled down in his chair at his desk to wait.
Tucked away under the eaves of the four storey building, the window to his office was tiny. He had positioned his desk to catch as much natural light he could, angling the blinds to let in the maximum amount without admitting prying eyes from the building next door. He opened the sash to admit a breath of fresh air and peered down into the square below.
As usual, it was busy with the comings and goings of pedestrians and shoppers and the occupants of, and visitors to, the various offices around him. He watched the activity for a few moments before closing the window again and swivelling around to his desk to occupy himself with sorting through the accumulated heap of mail, mostly junk and bills, and returning overdue telephone calls.
Half an hour past the appointed time there came a bad-tempered knocking on his door. He answered it and ushered his guest into the cramped, but clean office.
'It's a bugger to park around here,' blustered the portly man in the navy blue suit. His face was red and sweating from his exertion, having had to climb several flights of stairs to reach the top floor. He loosened his tie. 'And what sort of office building doesn't have a lift in this day and age?' he complained.
Nat apologised for the building's failings and offered the man a bottle of mineral water from the mini-fridge. 'I'm sorry about that, but the building is old and it's been listed, we couldn't have one if we wanted one, and if it wasn't, there simply isn't enough room for one.'
'Sodding Planning and their rules and regulations,' puffed the man, and gulped down the water. The men settled into a pair of tub chairs and the meeting began.
Saving Nathaniel Page 4
