Leo paused to clear his throat, trying to disguise the shock and hurt he felt at Helen’s words. ‘Just my luck – an uncivil ghost,’ he retorted lamely. ‘And anyway, I don’t have a Tesco. I go to Sainsbury’s. And I don’t take Prozac. Justerini and Brooks is quite adequate.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Helen, as she leapt to her feet, skipped down from the knowe and stood in front of him. ‘I’m not actually down on the notion of you at all. In fact, I think we rather connect.’ She seemed to give off a strange, cold energy. ‘I would have been your girlfriend,’ she added coyly, a puckish glint in her eye. ‘If I was single. And alive.’
Leo cleared his throat again, uncomfortable in the silence that followed, but also a little flattered by the girl’s change of tack, if slightly unsure of her sincerity. But she gazed into his countenance with such deep admiration that he decided that she was not, in fact, teasing him. He remembered an offbeat theory he had once heard, that in the afterlife our visual form is beautified, and we all resemble Hollywood film stars. And at this moment Helen Addison certainly did look supernaturally beautiful, robed in luminescence, as though she was composed of light. Leo had to stop himself from reaching out and affectionately stroking her porcelain cheek.
‘I went to see your parents,’ he began. ‘And I spoke with Craig.’
The words had an immediate and profound effect on Helen. The warmth drained from her face, and was replaced by a look of profound grief and anxiety. Her apparition started to fade.
‘I don’t wish to discuss them,’ she said, her voice breaking with emotion. ‘I’m not ready.’
He shouted her name in vain but she was gone, disappeared into the ether, before he was able to ask her who Tark was.
26
THE Innisdara Inn had stood for over two centuries, and new owners had faithfully restored a measure of its original ambience. The walls were lined with gypsum and painted white. The ceiling was low, with exposed joists dark-varnished to contrast with the emulsion. The room was tastefully decorated with framed watercolour scenes from Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley. The bar itself stood in the centre of the room, a square island of polished hardwood and sparkling glass, its gantry stocked with a formidable array of regionally distilled amber-coloured liquids; a veritable Aladdin’s cave for the inveterate boozer.
The inn’s focal point was a fireplace on the north-facing wall, to Leo’s left, set within a stone chimney breast. Peat burned cheerfully within the grate, and enthroned upon the hearth seat was, as far as Leo was concerned, an unwelcome patron: Kemp, the baron’s man. He nursed a pint of lager in one of his massive hands as he chatted lazily with a pair of farmhands who propped up the bar, the establishment’s only other guests. He noticed Leo come in and flashed one of his trademark grins in his direction. Leo didn’t react, and ordered a large Old Pulteney with a pint of the local heavy to accompany it from the landlord, who had an English Midlands accent and a bushy moustache. Leo then retreated to an alcove which was out of the draught of the front door but on the other side of the room from Kemp. There he deliberated upon the evening’s events for a while.
Well-oiled, and with the landlord calling ‘Time’, Leo set off for the hotel, leaving Kemp and his cronies still drinking; presumably licensing hours didn’t apply to locals.
The cold air did little to sober Leo up, such was the massive quantity of alcohol he had now consumed. He veered a little across the road as he walked the mile or so back to the Loch Dhonn. Not far from the gates to Fallasky House, the road was bordered by thick coniferous woodland, a dark place which gave Leo the creeps. What the cold air did do was contract his bladder, such that he felt an urgent need to pee. Leo stepped to the side of the road and found that Benjamin Franklin had shrivelled somewhat with the temperature, and that the flow was feeble and sporadic. As he performed he fancied that he could discern sprites and nymphs watching him from the wood’s shadowy glades, mocking him.
Leo zipped up and set off, focusing his eyes on the lights of the hotel in the middle distance. Just over a gate to his left he noticed a figure with a torch in the meadow there. Leo directed the beam of his flashlight to reveal George, still out searching. Poor bugger must be bloody freezing, thought Leo, noticing now the man’s inadequate, archaic country attire. He greeted him, but Rattray didn’t seem to hear, or perhaps didn’t feel like chatting, and he turned and walked in the direction of his home. Leo called out again, and such was his distraction that he was unaware of a Land Rover, its headlamps off, creeping up behind him.
Suddenly, the engine roared, and Leo spun round to be blinded by the lights, which had now been switched on to full beam, as the vehicle was driven towards him at speed. In an instant he opted to leap, rather than run, out of the way, a decision that prevented him death or serious injury. He ended up tumbling down a bank, into the dreaded woods, his torch falling from his grasp and dying from its impact with the turf. He had the wind knocked from him and felt pain in his left shoulder and both knees, but a quick flexing of his extremities told him that nothing was broken. He heard the gearbox whine as the vehicle reversed too quickly. Leo instinctively stayed perfectly still so as not to give away his position; he had fortuitously landed among thick cover. Against the starlit backcloth he could make out the unmistakable outline of a Land Rover pick-up. The driver, who was wearing what looked like a flour sack over his head with a slit cut for vision, got out and shone a flashlight into the woods. It looked somehow obscene, the yellow beam of artificial light picking out the midnight detail of an obscure thicket. The hooded man had what resembled a shotgun crooked in his other arm, and Leo murmured a prayer. The miracle duly arrived. The man got back into the vehicle and drove off. Leo lay for a while on the black soil, which smelled cold and rich, listening out for the sound of an engine, lest his stalker return. When he felt quite sure that he was alone, he retrieved his torch – a quick shake restored it to functionality – and crept along the apron of the wood for a while, then dashed the final few hundred yards to the hotel.
27
LEO’S sleep was wrecked by the trauma of what had been the second attack upon his person since arriving in Loch Dhonn. His dreams presented him with a recurring image.
Two thoroughbreds galloping, in slow motion, through a pasture by a loch. He sees the beasts from several angles, their manes being tossed proudly, their chestnut flanks shivering with exertion, steam rising from their flared nostrils.
After breakfast Leo, whose hangover was remarkably mild, wasted no time in entering the steel-grey, bitterly cold morning and seeking out DI Lang, who was sitting behind his desk in the Portakabin, looking as though he hadn’t slept in a week. He had evidently taken to flouting Scotland’s ban on smoking in the workplace, and his reception was little warmer than the temperature outside.
‘Were you bevvied?’ enquired the cop blithely, after Leo had related the events of the previous day and night, including the theory that a brass cylinder had been stolen from Eva’s workshop and used to violate Helen. He also told Lang that Shona had fired Helen from the Loch Dhonn Hotel, but, of course, he kept his audacious visit to the Addison home to himself.
‘I was well fortified against this infernal cold, I’ll grant you. But he was trying to kill me, guaranteed. Assuming it was the murderer, it would prove that our man is indeed a local, Detective Inspector, as we both suspected.’
‘Who could have known you were on the road?’
‘Any number of people would have seen myself and Eva dining earlier, and surmised that I would escort her home to Kildavannan and then walk back to the hotel myself. We met George Rattray on the way down, and that arse Kemp was in the Innisdara Inn, where I stopped for a nightcap on my way home. He could have followed me out.’
‘Are you sure it was McKee’s vehicle?’
‘Yes . . . I mean, I think so. It was dark, obviously.’
‘Did you see it up by the pub, where Kemp was, beforehand?’
‘No. But it could have been parked round the back.�
��
‘Have any of your apparitions been about McKee?’ asked Lang as he lit his third consecutive filter cigarette of the conference.
‘You will recall my telling you of the second vision I had back in Glasgow, involving the unintelligent man wrongly accused. I now believe that fellow to be Robbie McKee. I take it he is a suspect?’
‘Well, you yourself say it was his Land Rover that tried to run you down.’
‘But that doesn’t mean he was driving it. He’s known to leave his keys sitting in the ignition overnight. The driver was wearing a hood. It could have been Kemp. Or, more likely, the murderer. Or perhaps they are one in the same. Although Kemp’s shoe size will be bigger than a nine, the size of the killer’s footprint.’
‘Where did this take place, exactly?’
‘By the woods just south of Fallasky House, the Grey Lady’s place.’
Lang raised an eyebrow.
‘What?’
‘Her man Bosco is back in town.’
28
LEO, discouraged by Lang’s rather dismissive tone, headed back to the hotel for a brief respite from the hard frost and to take morning coffee. He felt comforted to sit in the lobby by the huge fireplace, content to be in proximity to the low hubbub of the hotel’s activity. Leo had missed Fordyce at breakfast, and withdrew his mobile phone in order to call him. He noticed a rather oblique text from his friend: ‘Gone back to the ’Burg for a few days, old stick. Be back up soon.’
Leo felt rather troubled by the message. Was something wrong? Had he offended Fordyce in some way? He had wanted to obtain his assistance, so that he could visit Innisdubh again and try to open the sepulchre he had dreamed of and been violently denied access to.
Then Leo’s thoughts turned to the image of the previous night, the magnificent horses running free. It put him in mind of a scene he had witnessed recently, in a meadow by the loch; he felt sure that his powers were urging him to visit this place. Therefore he returned to his room to dress properly for the outdoors. He then borrowed the walking stick from the hotel hat-stand and popped a Pan Drop into his mouth before heading outside. He strolled up the drive, by the colossal frosted trunk of the Wellingtonia, then set off southwards through a crystal realm, the countryside majestic under its pale dusting, his footsteps making a satisfying crump-crump sound on the hoary turf. He hoped that his choice of direction was genuinely instinctive, and not some forlorn subconscious attempt to bump into his dinner date of the previous evening.
Soon, Leo came across that rarest of Loch Dhonn sights – James Millar at ground level during daylight hours. However, the recluse was hardly making himself conspicuous as he wove a path through the trees that bordered the roadside. Leo hailed the hermit and Millar walked across the tarmacadam to meet him.
Apparently, he had only been smoked from his hinterland retreat by an urgent need for camphor to treat a nasty abrasion he had sustained.
‘Do you happen to know why Fordyce went back to Edinburgh?’ asked Leo.
‘I would guess he needed a bit of time to himself.’
‘Oh,’ said Leo, unsatisfied by this answer.
‘He won’t thank me for telling you this, but he’s very keen on you.’
‘I’m keen on him, too.’
‘Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.’
‘And you tell me this why? In some cavalier attempt to convert me to sodomy?’
Leo immediately regretted his words, blurted out in a moment of embarrassment; he actually felt overwhelming concern for Fordyce.
‘That’s unworthy of you, and of Fordyce.’
‘I . . . didn’t mean it,’ mumbled Leo.
They came abreast of the village store, a timber-log affair which probably coincided with Millar’s mountain cabin aesthetic. Two doves remained where they sat with their heads partially buried in ruffs of feathers, too cold to bother concerning themselves with the arrival of humans.
Millar faced Leo and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Be gentle with him.’ He turned and went inside the shop, the ping of the bell announcing his rare visit.
Thoughts of Fordyce tormented Leo as he walked on. He reckoned that helping Leo with the case – not to mention watching his back in case of danger – had meant a great deal to him. Therefore his heartache must have been acute for him to leave for Edinburgh so abruptly.
Things would be so much simpler – and infinitely better – if only Eva fancied him instead of Fordyce, he speculated.
A commanding view of the lochside now presented itself. Down in the pasture beyond the boatyard, beyond George Rattray’s home and across from Innisdara, stood the two chestnut thoroughbreds – undoubtedly the animals he had foreseen in his sleep a few hours ago.
Before the knowe where Leo and Eva had been startled the previous evening, and where Helen had appeared, was a path which led its way down towards the loch, passing through some boggy land, then skirting the rear of Rattray’s property to the right, with an area of woodland to the left. Down further still was the pasture itself, to the south of which were stables and some agricultural buildings. While passing the woods Leo became aware of a figure in the periphery of his vision. It moved stealthily through the trees, and at first Leo thought it might be one of the locals hunting for wigeon or snipe. But something about the person’s furtive body language suggested it wished to remain undetected by human, rather than avian, eyes. Leo crept into a brake of firs for cover, and fixed his Barr & Stroud binoculars to his eyes. There! He saw a flash of colour as the figure moved into the open. There again! But not a long enough exposure to identify the individual. Leo hunched down and quietly stole forward, taking care not to snap any twigs and give himself away. He knelt by a decayed stump and again raised his binoculars. This time he got a good look at the creeper – one Lex Dreghorn.
Just like a hunter he had a .22 rifle and a game bag strapped over his shoulder, but this could have been a cover to disguise his real purpose. Further into the woods went Dreghorn, and Leo followed his progression. The trees were a little thicker now, although many of them were denuded due to the season. Dreghorn stopped in a glade and began scanning the surface of the loch with a pair of field glasses. Leo wondered what vessel he expected to see upon the water. Dreghorn suddenly brought the glasses down, spooked by some unknown sound. His bald head darted around anxiously in every direction, and Leo instinctively dropped to the ground and kept perfectly still. By the time he peered back out into the glade, Dreghorn had vanished.
So intently had Leo been watching Dreghorn that he was oblivious to the huge, lurking figure watching him from the shadows. And when Leo turned round to head back towards the path he found himself looking straight into the face of an ogre.
Yet the ogre did not strike; it merely babbled a few indecipherable sounds from his wet red mouth. He had a large, oval-shaped head upon which his sleek black hair was cut so short that it looked as though it had been painted on. His eyes were as small as raisins, set deep within a large copper-coloured face.
So this is Bosco, deduced Leo.
He was tall enough, yet it was his girth that was truly impressive. He had a beer barrel for a body, his arms and legs were arboreal limbs corded with steel, his hands blunt and brutal bludgeons.
It became apparent from the man’s simian gestures and idiom that he wished to show Leo something. Leo took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the walking staff, and followed. Bosco’s massive back seemed to ripple with power, and stretched the fabric of his suit jacket to bursting point. Leo wondered what the Grey Lady was attracted to in this brute other than raw manliness (and the event that his anatomy was all in proportion), then admonished himself for judging the fellow so by his appearance.
Once at the path Bosco led Leo down its slope towards the pasture, where he stopped. The horses trotted over to the barbed wire and regarded the duo curiously. Leo wondered if Helen had ridden these fine animals. Bosco pointed at something nestling in the long grass by a little ditch which drained the run-off from
the path. It was a 100ml pharmaceutical vial, its seal unbroken, the trade name Anesket printed on its label.
Leo withdrew an evidence bag and lifted the vial into it with a pair of tweezers from his detective’s kit. He mouthed his thanks to Bosco, who replied with a nod of his massive rugby-ball head.
29
‘KETAMINE hydrochloride,’ declared Leo, brandishing the evidence bag in the police incident room like a trophy.
Lang whistled. ‘And in liquid form! Where did you find this?’
‘By the pasture adjacent to Innisdara. Last night I had a vision that drew me to the location, except Bosco had already found the item. He directed me to it.’
‘Did he now? Hmm. Perhaps a vet dropped it.’
‘No. I’ll wager you’ll take George’s prints off that vial. When I saw him last night he was looking for something.’
‘Yep, that would make sense.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘George helps manage the loch – fish stocks and such.’
‘So?’
‘Some ghillies use ketamine once they’ve netted fish for egging. Apparently, a few drops in the tank and they lay like billy-o. Strictly speaking, it’s illegal, but as long as he’s not selling it to kids . . . well, frankly, I’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment – pardon the pun.’
The Ghost of Helen Addison Page 18
