‘It’s the least I can do. Cameron came yesterday, as you know, but he’s holding the fort today.’ She drained her coffee. ‘I needed that, but now I’d better get back.’ She squeezed Morag’s elbow and gave a reassuring nod. ‘I’m sure we’ll find her.’
‘Let’s just hope that the rain holds off, though visibility seems to be getting poorer.’ Morag’s mobile phone went off and as she looked at the screen she saw that it was a call from Wallace Drummond.
‘Morag, we’ve found a trainer in bracken by the old Strathshiffin road. Annie McConville’s dog found it.’
‘Is it just the one trainer?’
‘Aye, just the one. It’s still got its laces tied and it looks as if it came off in the mud.’
‘Can you send me a picture, mark off the area and then bring it here?’
‘Will do,’ he replied and rang off.
‘Good news?’ Helen asked.
‘We’ve found a trainer, but whether it’s good news or not I don’t know.’
Kathleen Peterson had locked the door to Beamish solicitors as soon as Hazie, Helen Beamish’s secretary left for lunch. Cameron was working in his office, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened about his neck. When Kathleen pushed open the door and strolled in he pretended that he hadn’t heard her and went on working.
‘It’s time to take a break, you naughty legal owl,’ she whispered as she approached his desk.
Cameron tossed his spectacles down on the desk and rose eagerly to meet her. ‘Och, we’ll have to be quick, you filthy mistress. I have somewhere I have to go soon,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘Where shall we do it?’
Grabbing his tie, she walked backward out of the office, drawing him with her. ‘I want to do it on her chair again. It makes me smile whenever I think of her sitting there after we’ve made love on it. The stupid cow!’
He gave a throaty laugh. ‘That’s just what she is. An ungrateful stupid cow of the first order. You really don’t like her either, do you?’
‘Why should I? The way she treats you, but she’ll get her comeuppance soon, won’t she?’
‘I’m working on it, darling. But we have to think about your situation. About Bruce and your kids.’
She grabbed his hair and kissed him again. ‘We’ll think about all them later. Right now it’s just about us.’
With his pipe charged and lit, Lachlan ambled over to the St Ninian’s golf course, leaving a trail of tobacco smoke in his wake, where he met George Corlin-MacLeod on the first tee as they had arranged the day before.
‘I haven’t brought a hipflask, Padre,’ said the distillery owner, opening his bag and taking out one of the Glen Corlin’s distinctive handbell shaped bottle, ‘but here’s one of our 50-year-old Glen Corlins that I’d like you to have.’
Lachlan whistled as he took the bottle. ‘There is no need for this at all, George. I am more than happy to have a few holes and a chat about your worries. Life often throws these things at us and as I always say, a problem shared is a problem halved.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows questioningly. ‘And maybe have a prayer afterwards, like yesterday?’
George reached into a pocket and drew out a new ball and a fresh tee. ‘Well, I can’t turn that down. It helped me and I’m grateful to you for letting me use you as a sounding board.’ His lips tightened and he shook his head. ‘After what happened to those poor kids I’d say we all have a lot to pray about. Shall I drive off first?’
‘Ready golf, George. Away we go.’
They had elected to play a full eighteen holes, going round the St Ninian’s course three times. As they reached the last tee, George surprised Lachlan.
‘If you don’t mind, Padre, I think I’d like to break open that bottle.’
‘A stirrup cup before the last hole? That’s not a bad idea, but let me give you a drink from my hipflask, if it won’t offend you?’
George looked at him quizzically. ‘Why would I be offended, Padre?’
‘Because I have it filled with Abhainn Dhonn, your competitor’s whisky.’
George gave a wry smile. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t care if it was just peatreek. I could do with a dram.’
Lachlan produced his pewter hipflask and two small leather covered whisky cups from a pocket of his bag and handed the cups to George. ‘You will find it a good drop and with quite a distinctive nose,’ he said as he poured a generous measure into each vessel.
The distillery owner sniffed his drink and nodded his approval before raising the cup to Lachlan. ‘Here’s to the last hole, Padre. I appreciate you giving me all this time in spite of all that’s going on here on West Uist, with those teenagers and everything.’
‘Slainte mhath,’ Lachlan said, raising his own cup and taking a sip. ‘That’s not a problem, George. I am here for you if you want to talk. I deliberately didn’t mention anything about this unfortunate business since I realise that you have things on your mind.’
‘The golf has helped to calm my mind, but you may have noticed that over the last few holes I’ve been a bit nervy.’
‘You are working up to telling me about your troubles.’
‘It’s awkward, Padre.’
‘You said that the last time.’
‘It’s a sexual matter.’
Lachlan looked around to ensure that there was no-one within earshot. ‘Would you like to go into the church where it is private to tell me?’
George shook his head and drained his whisky. ‘No, we should finish the game. My problem is that I have trouble in the bedroom department, Padre.’
Lachlan was taken aback. ‘In that case, George, I am not really qualified to help you. It’s a doctor that you are perhaps needing to see, not a minister.’
‘No need. You see, I know exactly why I have the problem. It’s entirely psychological.’
‘But George, I’m just a man of the cloth. I’m not a psychologist. If it is anxiety that you think is causing your problem, then a professional might —’
George handed the cup back. ‘I’m not anxious, Padre. I’m angry. Bloody angry! I want to kill someone and I’m scared that I might just do it. That’s why I need help.’ And then, almost nonchalantly he teed up his ball. ‘Shall we finish the round before the mist closes in again?’
Vicky had no idea what time it was. Deprived of any sensory input apart from her hearing, she had found herself drifting in and out of sleep. There in the bleak darkness of her mind grotesque dream images would jolt her back to her current nightmarish reality.
Her headache had lessened in intensity so that the pounding had turned into a constant background aching. The nausea had persisted, but had been gradually diminished by two other unpleasant sensations. First was an intense thirst such as she had never experienced in her life and second was the increasing pressure as her bladder started to fill up. Her mind latched onto both to increase her discomfort and state of fear.
She thought she heard a slight scratching noise, like a door being slowly pushed closed. She wanted to cry out and demand if there was anyone there, but the tape was too tight and she could not open her mouth.
Suddenly, her hair was grabbed and her head roughly yanked back so that her face was pointing up to goodness only knew where. She felt her heart pounding fast and could feel a violent pulsation in her abdomen as blood pumped through her aorta.
She felt a pressure on her mouth and heard a slight ripping noise as if the tape was being cut. Then the hand holding her hair tightened and pulled her head further back and something was thrust through a hole in the tape, forcing itself through her lips and between her teeth into her mouth. A tube of some sort.
Panic set in and she felt her breathing quicken.
There was no sound, no voice. No spark of kindness.