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

by Faith Mortimer

  Should she tell him anything? Or should she leave well alone? From his suggestions, he must have already thought she was heading for the funny farm.

  “No, I haven’t slept well for weeks, and I’ve recently been feeling strung up and under pressure at work. It’s one of the reasons I’ve come up here. I thought the remoteness and tranquillity would do me good.”

  “And so it should. Look, I’m no expert, but it sounds like you’re suffering from stress. Common symptoms are what you’ve just described, as well as feeling anti-social, depression, and changes in appetite. Give it some time, and I’m sure you’ll soon start to relax.”

  Cassandra felt a mix of emotions on hearing his words. She knew he was only being kind, having found her in a near state of collapse outside his house. What else could he have done except invite her in for that enduring English habit of a beneficial cup of tea? He was almost certainly as embarrassed as hell having her drop in on him like this. She then saw the funny side, and a small grin hovered at the corner of her mouth.

  “What have I said that you find so funny?”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s everything…you inviting me in, like a perfect Englishman gentleman, for tea and talking about stress and relaxing. I have been under some strain just lately, and I know I’m edgy, but thank you for your concern. I’m determined to get over my problems.”

  “It’s me who should apologise. You must think I’m a right know-it-all, but the truth is I once knew someone who suffered badly. It was an awful time watching them being eaten away.” Angus gave a ghost of a smile, and Cassandra wondered who it was who had hurt him so badly. A relative, perhaps, or a close friend?

  “If you remember, I’ve also just lost my sister,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Yes, of course, it must have come as a great shock. She wasn’t that old.”

  “No, fifty-seven. But what you don’t know is that I never really knew her.” Cassandra swallowed as she felt a lump begin in her throat. She stared into the fire. “Susan left home when I was a baby. She was seventeen, and I only met her for the first time last year. We were virtual strangers.”

  When Angus looked surprised, Cassandra continued. “The awful thing is I never bothered to try to find out about her. I meant to, but my parents always put me off. There was something bad between them. I know it’s no excuse, and I should have had the bottle to ignore their wishes and make enquiries. It surely wouldn’t have been difficult, since she was a sculptor, and I could easily have looked up her work earlier on. Now she’s dead, and we never got to really know each other. What a waste,” she said, blinking back her tears and sniffing.

  “But you did get to meet her in the end?” Angus asked in a soft voice.

  “Yes.”

  He produced a snowy-white linen handkerchief and held it out. “Would you like to see some of her work? I don’t mean the bits and pieces she left you in the cottage…her more important efforts. Susan’s proper work.”

  Surprised, Cassandra lifted her head and nodded. “Really?”

  “Yes. There’s an exhibition being held in Edinburgh at the moment. They often feature local artists, and this time it’s your sister’s turn. It’s only a short drive away. I’ve been meaning to visit, and I’d be delighted to have you accompany me, if you’d like to.”

  “That…that would be fabulous.”

  “Bravo! Then it’s settled. I think it will do you good. Leave it to me to check out the times, and I’ll pop by and let you know.”

  “Did you know my sister well?”

  “Not very well. Our paths didn’t cross often. I spend time away from Inverdarroch, and Susan was a very private person. She spent a lot of time working at home, indoors.”

  “What about visitors? Or the other neighbours?”

  He seemed cautious, shaking his head and frowning. “I don’t remember seeing many visitors. She obviously had a few friends call in from time to time, but you’ll have to ask the others for more information. In all honesty, I don’t think she entertained much during the time I knew her. Of course, it might have been different when she was younger. Now, forget the tea. How about a drink? A wee dram?”

  Cassandra stirred, wiped her face, and pushed the hankie into her pocket. “I’ll wash and return it. No, thank you, I must be going, and I’m sure you have things to do.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing important, you’re most welcome, but it’s up to you.”

  She shook her head. “You’re very kind, but I must get back and check my fire’s all right. It’s the only heating I have, unlike you and your lovely mod cons,” she said shyly, casting her hand around the room, indicating the radiators and thick carpet. She stood up and turned towards the hall. “Thank you for the tea and sympathy. I’m not usually so pathetic, you know.”

  “I think nothing of the sort. You were frightened and I’m glad I found you. If you have any problems, please come and see me. I’d hate to think you’re worried about something and have no one to talk to. I’m not amazing with a screwdriver, but I am willing, and failing that, I can always put you in touch with someone who is.” As he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled, reminding Cassandra how attractive he was.

  Feeling dithery, she looked round for her boots and saw them lying on the floor beneath Angus’s coat hook. As she slipped them on, she raised her eyes to the coat hanging before her and realised it was as dark as the coat the mystery hill walker was wearing. She started and glanced back to Angus, who was watching her from the doorway. Everything he was wearing was dark, right down to his black jeans and socks.

  Her fingers trembled as she tied her shoelaces. Was it Angus out walking that afternoon? Was he playing some insane joke on her?

  Puzzled, Cassandra said a quick goodbye before she sped down the lane to her cottage. The smoke rising from the chimney was a welcoming sight and the smell familiar as she opened the garden gate. Latching it behind her, she hurried towards the front door but stopped a few feet away from it.

  Lying on the doorstep was something furry. She hesitated, letting her eyes adjust to the evening light. As she took a step closer, she realised it was a dead hare. She knew it was dead, because apart from the blood, its head was separated from its body.

  Her first thought was how disgusting to find such a helpless animal lying dead in her doorstep and wondered if a fox or a dog from the farm was responsible. Then she remembered. Wasn’t the mystery walker holding a similar animal?

  Trembling with shock, Cassandra glanced at her surroundings. The dark shadows seemed to mock her with their silence. Surely it wasn’t possible? Who would kill a hare and deliver it to her door? And why? What possible reason could anyone have for leaving such a macabre calling card?

  Her thoughts went back to the afternoon at Angus’s place and to his dark jacket and scarf hanging by the door. Would he have had time to stalk her on the mountain and get down before her? Was there a quicker way back to the hamlet?

  She decided there was no way he could have beaten her down. She had run, for heaven’s sake! And unless he was a total fruitcake, why would he have given so much of his time to offer her tea and advice? There you go again, woman, imagination running riot and overtime. The fruitcake wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous Angus, it was Cassandra Potter!

  Be sensible, Cassandra told herself. Okay, so you know you’re depressed, but you’re strong, and it’s high time you pulled yourself together. After disposing of the dead hare, she set about making supper. A mundane task would help take her mind off things. But try as she might, the day’s events unsettled her, and Cassandra’s thoughts returned once more to Stacy Hodges and her family.

  Chapter 13 Summer 2012, Liverpool

  Once they heard the coroner’s report, Rosie insisted she drive Susan and Cassandra home. “We’ll get a takeaway and a bottle or two of red wine, and I’ll keep you company tonight. We can watch a DVD if you like or just sit and have a quiet natter,” she said, linking her arm through her friend’s and smiling warmly at
Susan. “Come on, let’s go.”

  But the media had different ideas. They were baying for blood. A child was dead and someone had to pay. It didn’t matter that Susan hadn’t delivered the actual blow to Natalie; they considered she was responsible in another way. Rosie took one look at the reporters before they swarmed towards them and dragged both sisters off towards her car. They left a jeering pack behind them on the courtroom pavement.

  Cassandra sat huddled in one corner of her car seat and thought about what their late mother would have said. She never understood any of it, and from Susan’s so-far tight-lipped response to Cassandra’s remarks about their mother, no doubt Daphne would have expected as much from her elder daughter. Why would either of her daughters want to get mixed up in anything as dirty or obscene as child abuse? Why would they have associated with such vulgar people?

  Stacy Hodges was one such person. Daphne Potter would have loathed the woman with her cheap, low-cut tops displaying her large white breasts and her rounded bottom in a pair of lewd skin-tight leggings. As common as muck, she would have said. Such people drop babies one a year, often a different father every time or never even knowing who the father is. They only do it for the social-security benefits. Beats working and they get cheap housing. Little more than prostitutes. Cassandra hated thinking about the analogy, but said nothing to Susan. No, Daphne Potter would never have understood in a million years.

  During Susan’s early visits, she said Stacy Hodges was an almost perfect picture of motherhood, considering the conditions. Her children would play quietly and contentedly at her feet, and Natalie would bring her colouring book for her to see her completed pictures. “That’s lovely, Nat. You’re such a good girl,” she would say with a smile.

  Later, Susan began to watch out for the signs, and she would ask Stacy—when they were alone—about the bruising on Natalie’s arms. Stacy caught on quickly and whined about the conditions in which they lived: how the playground was dangerous and how she and Wayne really cared about their kids. Her eyes were sharp and knowing; despite what Susan’s mother might have said or thought, Stacy Hodges was no fool.

  “You ask Nat,” she said, wheezing between puffs of her cigarette. “That bloody council won’t do nuffink to mend them swings. They’re faulty I tell yer. You ask her, quiet-like. I don’t care. It don’t worry me or her. Ain’t that right, Nat. You’ll tell the truth, eh?

  Susan guessed money was tight for the Hodges. At the end of the week, after all the bills had been paid and money put aside for the ‘catalogue club’, there was little left. No money left over for ‘frills’. Stacy was eager to get her hands on the money Susan had agreed to pay her to use Natalie for her art. Nonchalantly, she asked Stacy whether she ever lost her temper with the children. “Course I bleedin’ well do. Who doesn’t? Yeah, I give ‘em a clip behind the ear now and again. Little bleeders. Nuffink hard but it makes them think twice. No sodding law will tell me I can’t smack my kids.”

  Susan told Cassandra she waited a full minute before her next question. “And Wayne? Does he enjoy having the children around? Does he spend much time with them?”

  “Nah. Not much. He’s got his job on the Underground to worry about. He does shifts, but when he’s here, he’s happy to play with them. He takes them to the playground and throws a ball around. They’re too young to go on their own, and there are often gangs of shifty little bastards from the Toxteth and Anfield areas over here looking for trouble. Yer know, drugs and the like. We don’t want nuffink to do with that lot. He gets cross sometimes, if he’s trying to watch footie on the telly, and yells a bit if they’re making a racket. But he’s not a rough man. Never uses his fists and he loves his kids, I can tell yer. Not like some who come home pissed every night. Wayne’s a right good dad.”

  Susan carried on sketching and skirted around with her questioning a bit, but eventually Stacy said Natalie and Wayne were fine together. “Nah! He’s never hit her, even in a temper when she and Darren are playing up. Nat would tell me. Now, you listen, Lady Sculptor, we’re a happy family. There’s plenty around here that ain’t, though. You ought to go and check ‘em out and not waste my time.”

  But there came the day when Susan noticed the burns and knew something wasn’t right. “Who did this, Natalie?” she asked when they were alone.

  Natalie’s eyes looked bright and feverish. “Nobody did it. Nobody did it, honest.”

  Susan knew she was lying but had no way to prove it.

  “I’m sure she was lying, Cassandra, I just know it. There’s something wrong with that family.”

  Just like there had been something wrong with Susan and Cassandra’s family. So far, her sister hadn’t divulged anymore about why she and their brother had left home. It made Cassandra feel jittery thinking about it and tentatively skirted around the subject.

  “Mother told me you were a handful and got up to mischief and told lies.”

  Susan sat silent, her face growing even paler than usual. “I was no more of a handful than anyone else my age at that time. I’ll tell you about it sometime, Cassie. I promise I will, but there’s too much going on in my head right now. Just remember this. I never told lies. I may have been naughty, but I was not a liar. Everything I said happened was true. They just chose not to believe it.”

  Chapter 14 January 2013, Inverdarroch

  Early the next day, when Cassandra drew back the curtains, she saw the snow had completely disappeared. But with the sky looking heavy and dark, she wondered if more was due.

  After a breakfast of fruit and a piece of toast, Cassandra planned to paint a coat of whitewash on the wall of the bathroom. She discovered a can of paint and some brushes in the shed, and after giving it a stir, she decided the paint wasn’t too old to use. There were also some bottles of white spirit and linseed oil on the workbench at the back.

  Before she started work, her phone rang, and she saw the caller was the solicitor who first contacted her when her sister died. When Mr Triggs of Triggs, Graham and Turner first got in touch, Cassandra had been intrigued by how he found her.

  “Originally from your sister’s birth certificate, Miss Potter. We didn’t have anything else other than that to go on. We made enquiries in the place where she was born, Liverpool, and took it from there. It took a little time to trace you.”

  Cassandra felt a pang as she thought of Susan, all alone in the world apart from a bottle of anti-depressants. “It was lucky my parents were still in the same house as when Susan left home.”

  “Yes, indeed. It was also fortuitous the present owners knew where you worked. We traced you through your employment.”

  Cassandra suddenly understood. After her mother died, she sold the family home and she remembered meeting the new owners. “I must have mentioned I was a photographer with a local wedding-planning agency.”

  “Indeed, Miss Potter. Well, it appears your sister lived here for many years.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t really know her, Mr Triggs. Susan left home when she was still a teenager, and nobody knew what became of her. She had no communication with any of us until fairly recently.”

  “I see. Well, she died at home. There was an inquest, of course. But it was assumed she was suffering from depression, and it was the overdose which caused her death.”

  “Yes, she was a heavy smoker. Who found her?”

  There was a pause, and she heard a crackle of paper at the other end. “A neighbour. A Miss Elizabeth Blackmore of Inverdarroch. That’s all, I’m afraid. Your sister was found not long after her death.”

  ***

  Cassandra wondered what Mr Triggs was calling about this time. She didn’t have to wait long. Mr Triggs said in a triumphant voice that he had a buyer for the cottage and that the price he was willing to pay was an attractive one, right at the top end of the market.

  Replacing her phone in her pocket, Cassandra sat down feeling slightly stunned. Well, that was unexpected and so soon. But why did she feel lukewarm about it? This was ridicul
ous. She knew all along she would sell the cottage. This place was hardly where she envisioned living, and she had to work. She couldn’t see herself relocating and travelling to work in somewhere like Edinburgh or a nearby town.

  Inverdarroch was like living in a lost valley, but certainly no Brigadoon. She had surly neighbours at Lochend farm—well, the mother certainly was—she had yet to properly meet the others. Cassandra had only spoken a few times to the Blackmore sisters and once to Donald and Fiona. Angus seemed agreeable, offering help and support, but after yesterday, she felt confused and edgy. Cassandra possessed neither the money nor time to entirely renovate the cottage, aside from giving it a quick makeover. Neither could she afford to keep it indefinitely as a holiday home on her photographer’s salary. Besides, did she really want to?

  A knock on her door roused her from her reverie. She wondered if it was Angus coming to see if she had survived the night. Like the ones before, she woke at least four times after disturbing dreams. Cassandra glanced in the mirror before seeing who it was and gave a start. Her face looked pale and tired, her peaty-brown eyes, smoky and clouded. But what shocked her most was realising how much weight she had lost recently. Cassandra had been so preoccupied during the previous few months, she hadn’t given her looks any thought. She recalled how her newest jeans were tight when she first bought them. Now they slid over her bottom without any bother. Thank heavens for small mercies, she thought as she drew back the bolts.

  “Hello there. Remember me? Sorry to bother you this early. Donald and I saw you were here for a visit and wondered if you’d like to come round for coffee this morning.”

  Cassandra was surprised to see Fiona on her doorstep. So far, she had exchanged only a few words with her and her partner. She hesitated for a second as she remembered the opened tin of paint and the day’s planned painting. Did she actually want to be sociable? She thought back to Rosie’s and Angus’s well-meant words and her own catechism. She needed to be active and get her mind onto new things. Being gregarious was one of them.