Broken Ground (Karen Pirie Book 5) Page 3

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing, Karen,’ Jimmy said, reaching for the ice-bucket to add another cube to his Strathearn Rose gin. This had become their ritual. It had started out as a regular Monday evening session but pressures of work meant these days it was a moveable feast. Karen’s flat; an assortment of gins; and the appropriate accompaniments. Which were becoming more and more baroque with every passing month. They had, however, drawn the line at the one that demanded an obscure artisanal tonic water plus a special infusion of seaweed and a slice of pink grapefruit.

  ‘It’s a gin and tonic I want, not a Japanese tea ceremony,’ Karen had complained. ‘And besides, have you seen the price of the seaweed water?’

  Gin Nights had started as a mutual support group after the death of Phil Parhatka, Karen’s lover. A fellow police officer, he’d been killed in the line of duty. Karen had thought she understood the effect of sudden violent death on those left behind. Until she experienced it herself, she hadn’t realised the way it carved a line through your life. She felt the ties between herself and the rest of her life had been severed. At first, she couldn’t bear to talk to anyone about what had happened and what it meant because nobody else could share her particular knowledge.

  Then Jimmy, who had been Phil’s boss, had turned up at her flat one Monday night with a bottle of gin and Karen instinctively knew he was having the same struggle as she was. It took them both a while – long evenings of talking about work, Scottish politics and the foibles of their colleagues – but eventually they broke their silence and shared their grief.

  Now it had become an institution. Jimmy’s wife had told Karen at his team’s Christmas party that the gin was cheaper than a therapist and it was doing her man good. It was a sort of permission, a way of saying she saw Karen as no threat to her marriage. But then Karen had never seen herself as a threat to anybody’s marriage. She was, she knew, the kind of woman men either dismissed or treated like the sister they were slightly intimidated by. Only Phil had ever seen past that. Only Phil had ever truly seen her.

  ‘I was sitting there listening to those women, and I couldn’t help thinking about you and Phil and the rest of your squad. If I’d been on the Murder Prevention Team, could I have sat there and said nothing? The answer was obvious,’ Karen said.

  ‘You’d never forgive yourself if you’d kept your mouth shut and something terrible was to happen.’

  Karen gave a soft chuckle. ‘I know. But I also wondered if I’m turning into the Mint.’

  ‘How so?’

  She sighed and stared into her drink. ‘He told me his new motto is, “What would Phil do?” Which left me no choice but to speak in Aleppo because Phil would have been right in there.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it? That Jason’s thinking that way?’

  Karen twisted her mouth in a sardonic smile. ‘Of course it is. He’s learning how to be a better polis. But it freaks me out a bit to see that frown on his face and know he’s trying to channel a man he’ll never match.’

  ‘Aye well, the Mint’s not the only one.’

  ‘And speaking of never living up to Phil – bloody Ann Markie has sent me another body.’

  Jimmy’s smile was wry. ‘I take it you’re not impressed.’

  ‘I wanted someone who could tackle the backroom stuff to free me and Jason up for actual investigations. I was thinking maybe somebody heading for retirement and looking to get off the streets but still hanging on to a bit of enthusiasm for caging the bad guys. And what did she send me? A wee Glasgow nyaff so full of himself I’m surprised he’s got room to draw breath.’

  Jimmy couldn’t hold back a chuckle. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, but the Dog Biscuit’s really got your number. She knows exactly how to push your buttons.’

  Karen stopped short, headed off at the pass by a tag she hadn’t heard before. Cops – and journalists, she’d heard – always found nicknames for their colleagues and bosses. The more obscure the better, in case of unauthorised eavesdroppers. Hence the Mint, so-called because there was a brand of confectionery called Murray Mints. More than that, their slogan was ‘Too good to hurry mints’, a perfect fit for a polis who wasn’t the quickest on the uptake. Karen didn’t know what her own AKA was and she was happy for it to stay that way. She had a feeling it would only feel like an affront. ‘”Dog Biscuit?”’ she repeated.

  Jimmy was grinning now, delighted to know something his pal didn’t. ‘You know those dog biscuits that are meant to look like marrow bones, but instead, they look like wee sausage rolls? They’re called Markies.’

  Karen got it. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Aye. A few of the guys tried calling her Sparks, after Marks and Spencer, but it didn’t catch on.’

  ‘Too cosy,’ Karen said. ‘I like Dog Biscuit. Just the right level of disrespect. Anyway, this guy she’s landed me with, a sergeant called McCartney, he says he’s come from the Major Incident Team. Which makes no sense to me unless he’s been a very bad boy. Nobody with any ambition chooses the HCU.’

  ‘You did.’

  Karen shook her head. ‘Different kind of ambition. I’ve got no desire to struggle up the down escalator that is Police Scotland promotion. My ambition is to clear cases that everybody else has given up on. To give answers to people that have been waiting way too long to find out who blew a hole in their lives and why.’

  ‘Fair point. You think the Dog Biscuit’s put him there to keep tabs on you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I sailed pretty close to the wind on that Gabriel Abbott business. If the Macaroon hadn’t got the bullet, I might have been in deep shit. I can’t help wondering whether I’ve swapped one boss who wanted to hang me out to dry for another.’

  ‘So what are you doing to keep the new boy occupied?’

  ‘I’ve got him tracking down the owners of red Rover 214s from the 1980s.’ A wicked smile curled round her lips.

  ‘Half of them will be dead. Was it not compulsory to be in possession of a pension book and a wee tweed hat with a feather in it before you were allowed to buy one of them?’

  ‘That, or else you worked for an outfit whose fleet buyer hated everybody that got a company car. Still, some of them’ll be kicking around yet. There’s a slim chance it might not be a dead end. That’s the thing with cold cases. Sometimes it’s the least promising loose end that makes the whole thing unravel.’

  ‘You want me to see what I can find out about this McCartney?’

  Karen reached for the Strathearn and topped up her glass. ‘Well, you are a damn sight closer to the beating heart of Police Scotland than me. Don’t put yourself out, but if you were to hear something … ’ She pushed the bottle towards him.

  ‘No bother. Consider it done.’

  ‘And till I hear back from you, I’ll just treat McCartney as the Dog Biscuit’s lapdog.’

  6

  2018 – Wester Ross

  If Alice had constructed a fantasy Highland crofter, he’d have looked a lot like the man who opened the door of the white cottage as their car pulled up next to a seven-year-old Toyota Landcruiser, its wheel arches caked with a layer of mud so dense it resembled fibreglass insulation.

  He was a fraction under two metres tall. His hair, the same shades as the peat bricks piled in their living room, fell to his shoulders in unruly waves. His luxuriant beard looked so soft she wanted to bury her face in it. He wore a baggy hand-knitted jumper the colour of fruits of the forest over a kilt that emphasised narrow hips and muscular calves. Thick wool socks pooled over the top of a pair of battered construction boots. He wasn’t exactly handsome. Just magnificent. Either this was Hamish Mackenzie, she thought, or a minor royal from Game of Thrones.

  He stepped out of the doorway, a welcoming smile on his face. ‘Alice,’ he said as she got out of the car. ‘And Will. It’s great to meet you. I’m Hamish.’ He seized her hand in a warm grip. His skin felt dry and calloused. Alice was suddenly aware of Will’s soft fingers spread across the small of her
back as he reached out with his other hand to accept Hamish’s handshake. ‘Come away in, we’ll have a coffee and take another look at the maps in the flesh, so to speak.’ His voice was deep and seemed to carry a faint note of amusement below the surface.

  They followed him into a kitchen that felt indefinably masculine. Stainless steel and oak buffed to a soft sheen, the sort of appliances Alice had only ever seen on cheffy TV shows, framed monochrome prints of fruit and veg from peculiar angles. ‘Grab a seat.’ Hamish waved them towards a breakfast bar while he approached a coffee machine that looked complicated enough to underpin the next mission to Mars. ‘Espresso? Flat white?’ A pause, and then, his voice a couple of tones deeper, ‘Latte?’

  ‘Flat white’s great,’ Alice said.

  Will frowned. ‘I’ll have a latte.’

  ‘I like a flat white for a change.’ She tried not to sound defensive.

  There was no possibility of conversation while the machine grunted and whizzed and spat and exhaled, but Hamish had left an array of maps on the breakfast bar which Alice fell on eagerly. ‘That’s my Granto’s map,’ she said absently, pushing it aside to study the two maps she assumed Hamish had drawn. One showed the croft and its features as it was now, including the holiday cottage. The one below it had a note across the top: Cobbled together from old Ordnance Survey maps, parish maps and one from the library at Inverness. It would have looked something like this in 1944. His handwriting was neat and legible, the maps clearly and carefully drawn.

  ‘“Granto?”’ Hamish asked.

  ‘That’s what we called my grandfather.’

  Hamish brought over the mugs, dwarfed in his big hands. ‘It’s easy to see how you missed it when you were on the prowl last summer. Hardly a landmark still standing. Or at least, standing in any recognisable configuration.’ He handed them their drinks and pointed to the cottage where they were staying. ‘Back in the mists of time, that was a byre. Packed full of cows in the winter. But we gave up on cows a few generations ago and the place fell to rack and ruin over the years. It probably looked like a pile of random rubble in your granddad’s day.’ He pointed to her grandfather’s sketch of the glen. ‘And this sheepfold here’s long gone. We’ve got a proper pen now, just over the brow of the hill.’

  ‘I see now how it fits,’ Alice said, an undercurrent of excitement vibrating in her voice.

  ‘I’m amazed you recognised it, Hamish,’ Will said. ‘I don’t know that I would have done.’

  Hamish shrugged. ‘I’ve known this land since I was a wee boy. When you posted your granddad’s map on our local Facebook page … ’ He lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. ‘I saw the similarities. And I wondered.’

  He’d wondered enough to respond to Alice’s post, asking if she knew where it was her grandfather had been stationed in 1944. When she’d revealed it was Clachtorr Lodge, a mere couple of miles down the road, that had clinched it.

  ‘Once you know what you’re looking at, it’s obvious,’ Will said, leaning back with a proprietary air, as if the discovery had somehow attached itself to him. ‘So, what’s the plan of action?’

  ‘Hamish, this is a fabulous cup of coffee.’ Alice interrupted. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Thank you, I like to think I know what I’m doing when it comes to making a decent cup of coffee.’ The big man smiled, dipping his chin in satisfied acknowledgement.

  Will grudgingly tasted his latte. ‘Pretty good,’ he conceded. ‘As I was saying, what’s the plan of action?’

  Hamish perched on a bar stool across the table from them, his expression a little shame-faced. ‘I have a confession to make,’ he said. ‘Once we’d agreed this was more than likely where your granddad buried his treasure, I borrowed a metal detector and had a wee howk about to see whether there was anything doing.’

  ‘Wow,’ Alice said again. ‘And did you find anything?’

  ‘I did. There were a couple of areas where it went off like a siren. Right next to each other, and in the general area where your X marks the spot.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Alice said, beaming.

  ‘Tell me you didn’t start digging.’ Will’s smile was fake as a Christmas cracker engagement ring.

  ‘Of course I didn’t. This is your deal, Alice. No way was I going to spoil it for you. All I did was mark out the area with some baler twine and a couple of iron stakes, just to make it a wee bit easier on the day.’ Hamish was more amused than indignant, which Alice thought he had every right to be.

  ‘Not everyone’s as impatient as me, Will,’ she scolded him. ‘Thank you, Hamish. That’s so kind of you.’

  Hamish knocked back his tiny espresso and grinned. ‘Not really, I was intrigued. Believe me, this is the most exciting thing to happen round here since Willie Macleod’s bull fell off the headland and got stuck on the rocks with the tide coming in.’

  She wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth or playing up to their imagined expectations of a simple Highland crofter, but she chuckled anyway. ‘Well, it’s exciting for me too. Granto talked about his Highland adventures in the war so many times, I almost feel like I was there myself.’

  ‘So how do we go about this?’ Will asked: the broken record jumping and clicking in the background.

  Hamish stood up and put his cup in the dishwasher. ‘I thought the easiest plan would be to use the wee digger to clear the top layers of the peat, maybe down to about three feet or so? Then, I’m afraid, it’s going to be a bit of hard labour for us.’ He looked them up and down. ‘You’re not really dressed for it, are you?’

  ‘We’ve got wellies in the car,’ Alice said.

  ‘That’s something, I suppose,’ Hamish said dubiously. ‘I’ve a spare set of overalls would maybe fit you, Will. They’ll be a bit big but you can tuck them in your wellies.’ He frowned, his mouth pursing. Then his face cleared. ‘I think there might be some old dungies out the back in the shed. From when I was growing up. My gran never threw anything out that might come in handy. Give me a minute.’ He strode out of the room and they heard a door open and close.

  ‘What a nice guy,’ Alice said.

  ‘Well, you obviously think so.’ Will couldn’t keep the sourness from his tone. He usually managed to camouflage his jealous streak behind a line of banter, but something about Hamish Mackenzie had clearly infiltrated his defences.

  ‘He’s really putting himself out for us. I’m grateful, that’s all. He didn’t have to get involved with us in the first place, never mind research old maps and make us the best cup of coffee I’ve had in weeks.’ She drained her mug and got up to put it in the dishwasher.

  ‘All of that is true,’ Will said. ‘But it doesn’t mean you have to come off like some goofy teenager. “Wow,” every other sentence.’

  She came up behind him and hugged him. ‘Stupid boy,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘As if I’d look at another man when I’ve got your ring on my finger.’

  He grunted. She knew it was the best she’d get and decided to let it lie. ‘I quite fancy the idea of you in overalls.’ An olive branch.

  ‘Huh. If they’re made for Iron Man there, I’ll look like a complete dick.’ He squirmed round and planted a firm kiss on her mouth. ‘But who cares, as long as it gets us what we came for.’

  7

  2018 – Wester Ross

  They made an odd-looking trio walking up the track from the croft house. More Hollywood comedy mismatch than serious business – Hamish, tall and broad, hair now pulled back in a short ponytail, well-fitting forest green overalls tucked into scuffed black wellies; Will, shorter and slighter, diminished even further by tan overalls at least two sizes too big, flopping over a pair of Hunters that had looked as if they’d never been worn anywhere more demanding than the local Waitrose; and Alice, squeezed into a set of blue dungarees, at odds with the rubber boots patterned with liquorice allsorts. ‘We might as well walk up,’ Hamish had said. ‘It’s only half a mile or so, and I’ve already moved the digger and the tools up there. And it’s a braw morni
ng for it.’

  Alice looked around eagerly as they went. ‘It’s funny to think of my Granto here in this identical landscape all those years ago. The war raging right across the world and here he was, in this peaceful, timeless place.’

  ‘Obviously not identical,’ Will muttered. ‘Or we’d have found it ourselves last year.’

  Hamish chuckled. ‘Aye. And I hate to disillusion you, Alice, but it’s only timeless if you measure time in a relatively short span. People think of the Highlands as a wilderness. A kind of playground for people who want to go hunting, shooting, fishing and hiking. But it’s as much a man-made environment as the big cities you leave behind you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alice paused and looked around her at the heather and the hills, the rocky outcroppings pushing through the soil, their surfaces stained with lichen and moss. ‘This looks pretty natural to me.’

  ‘And that’s because nature’s had time to reclaim what we’d previously colonised. Go back three hundred years or so, and this glen would have been busy with people working the land. Just picture it. Smoke rising from somewhere between a dozen and twenty chimneys. A few cattle here and there on the common grazing. Crops growing in run rigs, every croft farming its own five acres.’ Hamish pointed towards the sparkle of the sea loch beyond the margin of the machair. ‘Down on the shore, a few small boats, their fishing nets spread out for drying and mending.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Will chipped in.

  Hamish grimaced. ‘The Highland clearances. Crofting was subsistence farming at best. There wasn’t much in the way of profit, so it was never easy to pay the rent. And the aristos who owned the land were greedy bastards. They wanted a higher return on their inheritances to pay off the debts they ran up with their high living. Then along came organised sheep farming. Enclose the land, fill it with sheep, and you hardly need any labour. See that hill on the other side of the glen? That’s my sheep. I’ve got nearly five hundred Cheviots, and most of the work of running them gets done by Teegan and Donny. Throw shooting parties into the mix and you’ve got a whole new economy that only needs a handful of skilled people and an imported pool of seasonal labour to make it work.’