ON DEVIL'S BRAE (A Psychological Suspense Thriller) (Dark Minds Mystery Suspense)

by Faith Mortimer

  Cassandra couldn’t forget the idea that although she wasn’t the one who had given evidence in court, the prosecution had been aimed at her, by her association with her sister. Cassandra got drunk one night and pathetically blurted out her fears to her friends.

  “That’s rubbish and you know it. The whole inquiry board weren’t there to find your sister guilty. Susan did everything in her power to help that family. She couldn’t foresee what was going to happen. The inquiry found her blameless and said the social services could perhaps have done more.”

  But how could a child be murdered and any one of them be blameless? Could Susan have done more? Should she have listened more closely to her sister? Cassandra couldn’t get it out of her mind; even sleep was hard to come by, and when it did, she had nightmares.

  Cynthia and Rosie tried hard to support her with kindness and help. But Cassandra felt awkward, and worried they were overdoing the kindness bit. Was their well-meaning support preventing her from healing herself? Being alone in the Scottish cottage would rid her of such thoughts. It was time to stop torturing herself. A stay in Scotland was the right thing to do, and Cynthia and Rosie just had to accept it.

  Chapter 3 June 2012, Liverpool

  “Cassandra! My God, it’s so terrible.” Susan had phoned Cassandra in a panic and was sobbing. “I don’t know what to do. It’s Natalie Hodges…”

  She knew, she knew! But how did she die? The solemn child with the knowing grey eyes.

  “Susan, slow down, what are you saying?”

  “Nothing’s been proven yet, but a possible blow to the head…tripped over her nightdress—” Cassandra heard the indrawn breath as Susan inhaled on her ever-permanent cigarette.

  “When? Where was she?”

  “Last night.” There was a silence as Cassandra took it in.

  “What about the other children? The new baby and the boy—what’s his name?”

  “Darren. They’ve been placed in care…a placement of safety order. There’s no sign of abuse.”

  Cassandra felt deathly cold. As cold as the dead child.

  “I’ll come to you…stay where you are. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  My God. There it was…yet Susan had known it was going to happen. Hadn’t she? Susan had said as much. Was she as guilty as the father? Susan had described the rough-looking, gold-earringed, tattooed Wayne Hodges, who had sworn blind his five-year-old stepdaughter had tripped over her nightdress and fallen down the stairs.

  Cassandra closed her eyes and pressed her hand to stop her trembling mouth. Poor little Natalie. Poor Susan…

  Chapter 4 January, 2013, Inverdarroch, Scotland

  Inverdarroch was hardly mentioned as an area of outstanding beauty on the internet, but Cassandra considered the retreat of the glen possessed an impossible splendour. Wild, rugged, and remote, this part of the Scottish Highlands was among Europe's last great areas of untamed wilderness. With charm and grandeur, it was a place where nature ruled supreme. Apart from the forested area near her cottage, the rest of the glen and surrounding ridge was dotted with birch trees under a vast, changing sky. It was an ancient place of austere rock-hewn landscapes, windswept summits, of wild moorland, and high cliffs. The remoteness and purity was breath-taking and the perfect place for Cassandra to spend hours taking photographs.

  Cassandra had first seen Inverdarroch the previous autumn. She had spent an uncomfortable first weekend camping in the cottage because she hadn’t brought enough supplies with her. Later, after mulling over her idea of spending time alone in the glen, she had driven up there a few times, taking some odds and ends from her city flat to brighten the austerity of the stone cottage.

  Christmas came and went; she hardly noticed the usual festivities. It was mid-January, and she had finally persuaded Cynthia and Rosie she needed an extension of leave due to ill-health. She suspected her absence would inconvenience them for a time, but she needed to get back on her feet. Cassandra was free to do what she wanted in order to claim her life back. She wanted to lay her own ghost.

  Not long after the tragedy of little Natalie’s demise the year before, Cassandra had to contend with the death of a member of her own family. Her sister, Susan, had returned to Scotland and passed away. She was about eighteen years older than Cassandra: fifty-seven. It wasn’t old by modern-day standards. The solicitor’s letter explained Susan died suddenly of an overdose of anti-depressants. She had also been diagnosed earlier with a brain aneurysm. Cassandra knew all about aneurysms: an abnormal widening or ballooning of a portion of an artery due to weakness in the wall of the blood vessel. Her father had also suffered from one. Cassandra knew they could be hereditary due to a genetic link; she wondered whether she should be screened. Later, when I feel more at peace, she told herself.

  Despite the uncertainty of why aneurysms occurred, she knew certain things were thought to exacerbate the condition. High blood pressure, high cholesterol, and cigarette smoking were all considered to be predisposing factors, and judging by the smell and evidence of nicotine around the place—stained curtains and ceilings—Susan had definitely been a heavy smoker. Cassandra wondered why Susan took the overdose; perhaps Natalie’s death and the aneurysm hanging over her had led to depression. She could imagine Susan all alone and despondent, wondering if and when the condition would kill her. Why hadn’t Susan contacted her again? Cassandra would have been glad to visit her older sister and explore where she lived. They should have got to know each other better. Cassandra had been stunned when she received the solicitor’s letter. It was so impersonal. Susan died intestate, and as Cassandra was her only known relative, the cottage and contents in Scotland were hers. It was as cold and as matter-of-fact as that. She thought back to her friends’ first reactions to her stunning revelations.

  Chapter 5 August 2012, Liverpool

  “How amazing,” Rosie exclaimed upon hearing Cassandra’s news last year. “A romantic cottage tucked away in Scotland. You can use it for your summer holidays.”

  “Everyone knows Scotland’s swarming with ferocious mosquitoes in summer,” Cynthia chimed in. “Far better to sell it and buy a bigger place down here. Fancy you not knowing about it.”

  “Well, I knew she lived in Scotland, but I didn’t know where exactly, and that’s because I knew nothing about her life. She never told me about this place until much later, and before Susan contacted me, I had no idea where she lived or even if she was still alive,” Cassandra cried.

  Her friends looked at her with wrinkled noses and frowns. “What?”

  Cassandra felt embarrassed because she had never fully explained Susan’s sudden appearance in her life until after Natalie’s death, and it certainly wasn’t the time to explain in depth how odd both her parents had been throughout her life. “Susan was eighteen years older than me. I…I can’t remember ever meeting her. My parents never mentioned her because she left home when she was a teenager. I grew up thinking the worst. I imagined she was a drug addict or an alcoholic and had decided to turn her back on the family and live as a recluse.”

  “Wow. How crazy.” Rosie sat down next to her. She placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “So until a few months ago, you never knew you had an older sister?”

  Cassandra shook her head. “No. You see, apparently, she ran away from home, and my parents cut her off. Can you imagine? They had nothing more to do with her, and I only found out by accident I had a sister when I came across some old photographs tucked away in a leather-bound book one day.”

  “But what about when you found the photos? Didn’t you ask your parents about them? Like, who the person was?”

  “Of course I did. My father said ‘ask your mother’, and she was about as open as a clam. She told me practically nothing, except that Susan didn’t want anything to do with the family. I did think about trying to trace her, but Mother was so awkward, and time just flew. It’s dreadful. I’m just happy we did finally meet before this.”

  “Did the solicitor tell you anythin
g else?” Rosie persisted with her well-meaning questions.

  “Not much…only that she was a sculptor and artist. I knew that, anyway, but we had so little time together.”

  “Well, maybe Susan left some of her work up in Scotland. Or perhaps there’s a local exhibition about her. You know you might find more about the woman in her art, in her sculptures, or sketches. Susan’s work might tell you more than she could tell you herself.”

  Cassandra’s hopes rose at her words. “Do you really think so?”

  Rosie nodded, warming to her suggestion. “I’m sure you’ll find out more about her. After all, you’re her sister, despite your parents’ attitude. She might have wanted her own space, but that might not have included you. It’s sad she died before you had a real chance together, but you can go and find out about her. Make it a sort of pilgrimage.”

  Rosie’s suggestion was all it took for Cassandra to finally make up her mind. She needed her own space too, away from life in the city, away from the accusing stares she imagined coming from all angles. She sorted out her job and persuaded a doubting Cynthia to keep an eye on her flat as she prepared to flee to the Highlands of Scotland.

  She was about to start a pilgrimage, a chance to exorcise her doubts and fears.

  Chapter 6 January, 2013, Inverdarroch, Scotland

  So, on a chilly January day, Cassandra had finally arrived in Inverdarroch. She drove extra slowly for the last mile of her trip. She wanted to savour her arrival into the village and take time to recognise the place. Passing the first cottage, which looked shuttered against the winter’s day, she drew level with the church grounds. She glanced across the top of the stone wall surrounding the churchyard, thinking how bleak everything looked beneath the sullen sky. So far, she hadn’t seen a soul. Just as she went to change up a gear, she saw someone coming round the side of the church. Tall and dressed in dark clothes, he studied her car as she passed. She didn’t recognise his features, as his cap was pulled down over his face, but she felt his gaze pierce the windows of the car.

  She carried on down the road, passing the farm and one more cottage before arriving at her destination. Cassandra shivered as she stepped from her car outside the cottage that Wednesday afternoon. As she paused to take in the scene, a weak January sun pierced an eggshell-blue sky, illuminating the stone cottage and surrounding garden. The building sat low and squat against a backdrop of hills. There was a short front door, a low roof, and one single chimney. Inside the house, Cassandra remembered the only form of heating came from the hearth in the living room, and she was thankful the barn had a good pile of seasoned logs, most of them already cut and split for burning. She was surprised there wasn’t any snow in the valley but knew the odds were for a fall any day.

  She always enjoyed snow as a child, and the thought of being isolated by it came as a strange but comforting thought. She closed her eyes in pleasure: snow all around, a cupboard stocked full of food and wine, a basket of logs, and peace. Maybe she should get a dog. The countryside was glorious for walking.

  Cassandra hefted her case from the boot of her car—the groceries could wait—and walked towards the little wicket gate. A sign hung from the top, advertising the name of the place: Shadow Vale. It was apt; the cottage was lying in a river valley with a high hill behind it. On reaching the front doorstep, Cassandra set the case down and scrabbled in her coat pocket to retrieve the key.

  The door swung inwards, and the familiar sour reek of stale cigarettes hit her. It was late afternoon, and despite the sun, the room before her was full of shadows. Cassandra reached towards the wall and flicked on a light switch. She paused and surveyed the room. As well as the smell of cigarettes, there was a stench of neglect, of damp and ancient wood and stone. She should have taken down the curtains and washed them the last time she was there. She left the door wide open as she returned to the car to fetch the shopping bags and boxes of groceries and supplies. She had made sure she wasn’t going to run short of anything this time.

  As she walked up the path back to the cottage, a movement out of the corner of her eye made her pause and look round. At first she thought she had imagined it, and as she stared, she caught a glimpse of a shadowed face peering at her from beneath the shelter of the branches of a tree. “Hello,” she called. “Can I help you?” But there was no answer, just a faint swinging movement from where the branch had been released. Seconds later, Cassandra saw a figure moving with speed across the field. How odd, she thought. Not exactly the sort of welcome she would have expected. Someone was curious enough to spy on her from the trees but not sufficiently inquisitive to speak to her. She shrugged, and with her car emptied, she shut the door and set about stocking the kitchen shelves.

  Her sister had led a fairly spartan existence. There were a few lamps dotted around; they looked Middle Eastern and attractive, but the white plastic shades were tinged with old rust marks. Cassandra had remembered to buy new ones, their bright colours matching the scatter rugs she purchased from a store near her city flat. By ditching the original tatty, greasy, and threadbare carpets, she thought she could soon rid the cottage of its unpleasant smell.

  On either side of the hearth were two armchairs. Against a far wall, there was a sofa which looked long enough to sleep on. When she first visited Inverdarroch, the suite was covered with woven throws. Cassandra binned them and planned to replace them with the new cream-coloured ones she bought in Liverpool. She had seen at first glance how all the small items needed replacing: cushions, carpets, curtains, and lampshades. The kitchen was small and outdated. The china was old and chipped; no two items matched. It had been easy to push a shopping trolley round her local Ikea and pile it high with everything she needed and not feel she was breaking the bank. She would soon have it looking like…what? Home? It was an emotive word in the circumstances.

  Apart from the sofa and armchairs, there was a pine table with three chairs. Three? Why not four? There was a dresser in the kitchen, along with a fridge and cooker, and a couple of Turkish rugs adorned the kitchen floor. A small television stood on a low table to the right of the fireplace, and some wonderful large vases were scattered here and there. Cassandra knew they were made by Susan by the signature mark on the bottom. Susan had left few personal items. On the walls were sketches and two oil paintings, which, judging by the signature, were hers. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms. The larger one contained a small wardrobe and a chest of drawers which doubled as a bedside cabinet. On the landing there was a pine chest containing some serviceable-looking, if slightly whiffy, blankets. The most remarkable find Cassandra had made was in the smaller of the two bedrooms, which Susan had obviously used as her workroom.

  The room was painted white, well equipped with modern light fittings on the ceiling and walls. A rack along one wall contained a collection of small sculptured items made from stone, wood, ceramics, and glass. Susan had obviously been a keen naturalist because almost all were of animals. Cassandra handled the objects in turn, recognising Scottish wildcats, red deer, pine marten, peregrine falcon, golden eagle, red squirrel, and leaping salmon. There were even samples of wild boar and moose, which Cassandra knew were being re-introduced into Scotland’s wild. These pieces were nicely executed, but further along the shelf there was a collection of other sculptured objects, which quite frankly she would never have considered displaying. She picked up one or two and turned them over in her hands, baffled by why Susan had kept them; they were almost childlike in their finish. A few were crumbling, and she decided to put them in the shed. Her sister had been a remarkable but puzzling artist.

  Apart from her sculptures, Susan had obviously been a painter. Along the other walls were pictures lying upended. Cassandra dragged them out, one by one, to see what they might reveal about her sister. They were all different: oils of scenery, flowers, a stag or two. Some were abstract: large bold explosions of colour on huge canvasses. But if she had been looking for a self-portrait, she was disappointed. The nearest she found was a photograph of
a young man, standing in a punt, holding a pole and laughing at a pretty girl leaning back on a brightly coloured cushion. Scrawled on the back in biro it read: Cambridge 1968. Was this Susan? And who was the man? She squinted at the photograph and thought she recognised a very young Susan. She studied the photograph for a minute and concentrated on the other occupant in the boat. It was odd, but she thought she ought to have known who he was. Her brain felt fuzzy as she stared, but nothing became clear. Unless…unless it was her brother, but it couldn’t be, could it? Cassandra remembered very little about him, and when she did, it was only a glimpse of a man whose features she couldn’t recall. But why did the thought of Rupert cause prickles along the back of her neck? Deciding to think about it later, she resumed her unpacking.

  Cassandra carried her suitcase of clothes and toiletries into the larger bedroom. There was ample space in the chest and wardrobe for her things. The bed was a small double, and the mattress looked clean and reasonably new. There was only a trace of cigarette smells. She made up the bed with linen she had brought with her and cracked open the window an inch for airing. Outside, there was a small copse of mixed trees; the nearest almost touched the windowsill, while to the left, her land meandered uphill until it became heath. It looked wild and untamed, beautiful yet austere.

  Being an old cottage, the biggest drawback was the bathroom, which was downstairs. On her first visit, Cassandra had been dismayed by the tiny room containing a toilet, washbasin, and shower cubicle. There was hardly room to swing the proverbial cat. Then she remembered it was only her toothbrush that would be in the pine wall cupboard. Cassandra had no partner to share the space. She had never been married, and at thirty-nine, she had almost given up hoping. Besides, she didn’t have the patience to put up with a man and his ways at her time of life.