‘It isn’t genetic then?’ Tony asked.
Rachel fired him a glare that fizzled and faded almost as soon as it had flared.
‘Probably not. Well they don’t know but it doesn’t look like it. Less than ten per cent of cases are genetic. The problem is that they don’t know what causes the other ninety per cent.’
‘You’ve been doing your homework then?’
She offered a sad smile.
‘Yeah, just a bit.’
Rachel turned her eyes away from him and stared out of the window, gathering herself.
‘Either way, I have to give him some kind of peace and… And I don’t know how long I’ve got left while I might still be able to do that. The rate of deterioration seems to be rapid and he might not be able to take in what I tell him.’
A silence settled on them again. They both stared out of the window, watching the mist that was forming round the rim of the lake, seeing it rise and close in on the island. Neither of them could take their eyes off it.
‘So,’ Winter finally said quietly. ‘This Laurence Paton, your dad’s main suspect, where does he live now?’
An oddly cold look passed over Rachel’s face.
‘He lives in Stirling and teaches English at the High School. He and his wife stay in a mid-terrace house just walking distance from the city centre.’
Winter looked at her thoughtfully, taking in her words.
‘Okay. I understand how you would know where he lives and works. But how do you know what kind of house it is?’
Rachel hesitated, seemingly deliberating. In the end she held his stare, admitting no need to feel any guilt.
‘I know because I’ve been to his house. And I’ll be going back.’
CHAPTER 8
In the summer, Callander bustled with tourists and its main street was thick with cars inching along in the vain hope of finding a place to park. It was no more than forty minutes or so north of central civilisation yet it qualified as a Highland town, drawing hordes of visitors who were either too lazy or too short of time to go to the Highlands proper.
The winter months were different though and the lesser spotted elderly tourist was more likely to be dodging sleet or snow showers as they investigated the woollens, the tartans, the fudge, the bric-a-brac and the tat. The town returned to the keep of the locals, who were grudgingly glad to have it back to themselves.
It took just one visit to the Crown Hotel for Tony and Rachel to learn what they needed to know. They left the car where it was and walked briskly towards The Waverley further along the road, glad of the heat the extra movement was bringing to their bones. The snow-covered Ben Ledi towered over the town and it didn’t need much imagination to see that soon some of the snow would be falling at ground level too.
The Waverley was busy with a Sunday lunchtime crowd and a room off the bar was packed with football fans watching the live game on a big screen. The noise and the heat inside the pub were such a contrast to the street they’d just come from that Tony and Rachel just stood there for a moment letting both wash over them. The spell was broken only when Rachel nodded towards the end of the bar where a man stood polishing glasses. He had a shock of white hair that made him look older than the fifty-odd years she knew him to be. Wearing a navy blue V-neck jumper with a white shirt underneath, he was chatting to customers and nodding at whatever was being said.
‘Go on then,’ Rachel said, sensing Tony’s conflicting interest in the football match and making his mind up for him. ‘It’s probably better if I talk to him on my own anyway.’
‘You sure? Just shout if there’s a problem,’ he told her.
‘My hero. Get us both a drink, then go.’
Winter shouted up a pint for himself and an orange juice for Rachel, handed it over and started to move towards the shouts of the football fans.
‘Hang on,’ she stopped him. ‘Who’s playing?
‘Rangers against St Mirren,’ he grinned.
‘Great,’ she murmured ironically. ‘Will you manage to behave yourself?’
He smiled again. ‘I’ll do my best but no promises.’
Winter was a die-hard Celtic supporter and had been known to let his mouth run away with him while watching football in a room full of Rangers fans. And the chance of there being many St Mirren supporters in a pub in Callander was miniscule.
Rachel shook her head at him ruefully and turned back towards the bar. The white-haired man was now serving customers and she manoeuvred her way through the crowd till she was standing at the bar near him. A couple of the locals eased aside to let her in, accompanying their hospitable gesture with a barely disguised leer.
‘Thanks,’ she told them. ‘Brrr, it’s freezing out there.’
‘Nice and warm in here with us,’ one of the men said with a laugh, the whiff of lunchtime beer evident on his breath. ‘You on your own?’
‘Nah. I’m a football widow,’ she told them with a bob of her head towards the lounge area. ‘He’s over there.’
‘More fool him,’ the other one laughed. ‘I saw a bit of it earlier. Terrible game.’
‘I’m just glad to be inside for the heat,’ she replied. ‘We’re staying out at the Lake of Menteith and it’s baltic out there. They reckon the lake could freeze over again if this weather gets worse.’
Subtle it wasn’t but then understated wasn’t in her game-plan. There wasn’t time for that.
‘Aye, it’s brass monkey weather, right enough,’ said the taller of the two, a brawny farmer-type with a ruddy complexion that didn’t come just from working outdoors.
‘Ach, it’s no that cold, Dazza,’ the guy to her left chipped in; he was slightly shorter but broad and with equally florid cheeks. ‘I barely bothered with a coat this morning.’
‘Yer arse, Kenny,’ Dazza responded. ‘It’s freezing and they say it’s going to get a lot worse, eh? I read that there’s some big cold front coming over from Russia.’
‘Brilliant,’ Narey shivered. ‘So how cold does it have to get before the lake freezes? I’ve always fancied going over to Inchmahome if it does.’
‘Och, it needs to be like minus ten for a few weeks,’ Kenny told her. ‘It’s nowhere near that. Mind you, if it does freeze, then you should be careful about walking over to the island.’
The man seemed to have timed his remark just as the barman walked by them to serve someone at the end of the bar nearest to the door. He threw a dirty look in Kenny’s direction, clearly having picked up on what he said.
‘Why should I be careful?’ Narey asked the two men. ‘What am I missing?’
Kenny and Dazza exchanged supposedly cryptic smiles over her head.
‘Steady, Kenny,’ Dazza warned him in mock seriousness, raising his voice slightly. ‘You’re stepping on thin ice now.’
Kenny sniggered, seemingly enjoying his pal’s joke. The barman didn’t seem quite so amused though, looking back at them suspiciously from the till.
‘Come on,’ Narey persisted. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘Oh, it’s no joke,’ Dazza said solemnly. ‘No joke at all. There was a deid body found on that island.’
‘What? When?’
‘Och, it was nearly twenty years ago now. You probably won’t remember it, young thing like you.’
Narey swallowed down the answer she’d rather have given and instead smiled at the man, fluttering her eyelashes at the compliment.
‘So tell me then, what happened?’
The two men glanced conspiratorially at each other, looking around as if making a show of checking no one else was listening — no one except the white-haired barman. They moved in closer on either side of Narey on the pretence of sharing a secret.