It started to rain as he finally escaped the gravitational pull of Glasgow’s traffic and headed north-east, first to Stirling and then on to Perth. It was coming down in torrents when he negotiated the last of a series of roundabouts and joined the A9 north to Pitlochry and Blair Atholl. For the most part here the road was no longer dual carriageway or motorway and he was not long in finding out that the rented Ford he was driving fell a long way short of his own car’s performance when it came to brisk overtaking. An angry blare of the horn from an oncoming truck driver when he took too long to pass a bus reminded him to assume that he was towing the QE2 the next time he considered such a move.
After drawing a blank at the first two places he asked about Martin Hendry — a petrol station and a small craft shop — he decided that the local hotel might be his best bet, based on the assumption that journalists and alcohol went together like love and marriage. He found the bar busier than he’d expected with tourists and day-trippers but this was because of the weather. It was still raining cats and dogs outside. He waited patiently while a man from Yorkshire, judging by the accent, placed his family’s order for food and drink. The man finished by asking, ‘Is it always like this up here, luv?’
‘Mostly,’ replied the girl behind the bar as she started pulling a pint. Steven reckoned she was a student working her vacation. ‘It keeps the grass green.’
‘It’s a wonder you Scotties don’t have webbed feet,’ said the Yorkshireman, breaking into laughter and turning to share it with Steven. ‘I brought a caravan; I should have brought a bloody boat!’
Steven smiled and said, ‘Maybe it’ll be better tomorrow.’
‘You sound like bloody wife!’ exclaimed the Yorkshireman. ‘The sun will come out tomorrow,’ he half sang as he picked up his tray of drinks, changing it to a tuneless whistle as he headed for his table.
‘What can I get you?’ the girl asked Steven.
He ordered a pint of Stella and then said, ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. He has a place up here. His name’s Martin Hendry.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything I’m afraid,’ said the girl.
‘He’s a journalist.’
‘Maybe Peter will know him,’ said the girl. ‘I just work the holidays. I’ll ask him when I get a chance.’ She gave a meaningful look at the queue forming behind him.
Steven found a seat and sipped his beer while he took in his surroundings. It was just before four in the afternoon and they had the lights on because of the dark clouds outside, yet it still seemed gloomy. It was noisy too because of bored children being allowed to run around and people playing the electronic games machines. Two television sets, mounted high up on wall brackets, were switched on although their sound had been turned down and the air was heavy with the smell of wet clothing and fried food. At a table next to Steven, two Germans, wearing leather biker gear, had spread a road map and were planning the next leg of their journey. They were going to Inverness and then on to Loch Ness.
Steven saw that, for the moment, there was no queue at the bar. He managed to catch the girl’s eye and jog her memory. She smiled and disappeared through the back for a few moments. She returned with a short bald man wearing an apron and they both looked in Steven’s direction. He went over to the bar.
‘You’re looking for Martin Hendry, I hear,’ said the man.
‘Do you know him?’ asked Steven.
‘Comes in quite a lot,’ replied the man. ‘Comes up here to work on his novel. Going to be the next John Grisham, he tells me.’
Steven was unaware of this but inwardly conceded that it would not be an unusual ambition for a journalist or maybe it was just bar room bullshit. That wouldn’t be unusual either. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Have you seen him lately?’
‘He was in two or three nights ago,’ said the man.
‘So he’s still up here?’
‘As far as I know. He usually says cheerio when he’s going back down south and he didn’t say anything the other night.’
‘Thanks,’ said Steven. ‘Can you tell me how to get to his place?’
‘He’s got a cabin over on Tulach Hill.’
Steven looked blank and the man beckoned. He moved along to the end of the bar and came out from behind to lead Steven to a framed map of the area hanging on the wall. ‘Over here to the west,’ he said. ‘You can’t miss his cabin. It’s called Garry Lodge. It’s the only one on that side of the hill.’
Steven thanked the man and left, running across the car park to get in out of the rain as quickly as possible. He followed the man’s directions, finally stopping at a rough track leading uphill. At first he was unsure as to whether this was the right one — there seemed to be so many farm tracks leading off the road — but he found reassurance when, through the semicircles of the screen being cleared by the wipers, he caught sight of the small board nailed to a tree saying Garry Lodge. He nursed the Ford up the steep slope, its wheels scratching unsurely at the wet stones, until the cabin came into view and he saw to his relief that the lights were on and there was a car parked at the side.
Steven brought the car to a halt right in front of the cabin — something he did deliberately so that Hendry should be aware that he had a visitor. With a bit of luck he wouldn’t have to stand too long outside in the rain. However, the cabin door remained firmly closed as Steven ran up the five steps to it and knocked. He tugged his collar up against the rain while he waited but it still found the back of his neck.
‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he murmured as the seconds ticked by with no response from inside. He knocked again, this time harder and longer but with still no answer.
Feeling loath to just turn round and drive away after coming so far, Steven tried the door and found it unlocked. ‘Hello, anybody there?’ he called out as he stepped inside.
The only sound to be heard inside the cabin was that of the rain on the roof. Steven moved through it slowly, looking into each of the rooms in turn. It didn’t take long; there were only two and a small shower cubicle. Hendry, dressed in cream chinos and a blue denim shirt, was lying on top of the bed, an empty glass resting lightly in his right hand, a two-thirds empty whisky bottle sitting on the bedside table
Thinking that Hendry was in a drink-induced sleep, Steven was about to rap his knuckles against the door when he noticed the dark brown pill bottle lying on its side beside the whisky and understood its significance.
‘Oh, shit,’ he murmured as he moved towards the bed. ‘What brought you down cemetery road, my friend?’
Steven touched Hendry’s cheek and found it icy cold. ‘And through the gates.’
He checked for a carotid pulse but it was little more than a gesture. The man was dead — and had been for some time.
Seeing that Hendry was about the same age as he himself, Steven felt a lump come to his throat. There had been a time in his life when he had looked down the same road and found it attractive. It had been one option in ending the tide of sorrow and pain that engulfed him after Lisa’s death. Only thoughts of his daughter, Jenny, had stopped him but it had been a close-run thing. He knew nothing about Hendry’s personal circumstances but it was obvious that he had not found anything as strong to cling to. ‘They call it the easy way,’ said Steven softly. ‘But we both know that ain’t so.’
Steven brought out his phone to call the police, all too aware that he would be starting off a train of events which would lead to hurt, sorrow, bemusement and even anger among Hendry’s nearest and dearest. This was always the way with suicide deaths. The ‘if only’ complex kicked in. If only he had said something… If only he had talked to me about it… If only he had asked for help…