“Dad, that’s so racist!” Linda would’ve said, so he hadn’t told her that bit, even though Khan was always saying the same thing himself. Unlike Khan, Hollis was never that good at laughing at himself. But he had gone along with the “old man” jokes to cover up how excited he was. And nervous.
Here he was on his last pre-CID holiday with a bottle of Dalmore and a few cheap paperbacks. A whole weekend to kick his feet up while the anticipation for Monday built like the final days before Christmas. And he still wasn’t sure he deserved it. The promotion. The trip. Any of it. Part of him thought he should be at home. Seeing Dr. Bevan one last time before his new Monday shift. But Linda had been so proud of him. And so pleased she had pulled off this surprise. He couldn’t disappoint her, even if instinct had been needling him to turn around since Inverness. He turned the stereo up another notch.
It was dark now, but Hollis still wondered if he’d see one of those orange cows Linda loved before the weekend was out.
“Coos,” she had said. “They call them Highland coos.”
Keeping his eyes peeled for a coo, Hollis almost missed the silver SUV blocking his path.
He jerked the car left and slammed on the brakes.
“Shit.”
As Bon Jovi yowled about steel horses and six strings, Hollis let out a slow breath, then switched the stereo off. The sudden silence was deafening as he lifted his gaze to the rearview mirror. The only reason he and the SUV hadn’t collided was because the SUV wasn’t moving. He could see it lifted up on a jack, but, from his vantage point, he couldn’t see anyone changing a tire. Using the keychain torch he kept in his pocket, he hopped out to check for signs of the driver, turning up his collar against the rain.
Mud and cow dung wafted in the air as needles of rain pricked his face. Wet gravel lodged into the soles of his boots. Though he was hundreds of miles from his own jurisdiction, he couldn’t switch off the part of his brain that urged him to help, holiday or not. After all, hadn’t he found Catherine Marcus on a day like this? A dark night, heavy mist, no other passersby.
There was no one inside this car, though, tied up or otherwise. The doors were unlocked and the driver had left the keys on the seat. There were no personal belongings and the registration indicated that, like his, this was a hired car. Nothing to indicate who had driven it here, or who had abandoned it. Hollis had been the only car on the ferry. Hadn’t passed anyone on his way in, saw no pedestrians in the distance. Out of habit, he checked for signs of blood or a struggle but found none. The tire iron was missing, but no body lay in the ditch. Not as far as he could see, which albeit wasn’t far.
He cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, listening to his voice carrying over the rain, then waited for a response. None came. The longer he stood there, the more the rain soaked through his jacket. He shouted one more time.
Back in his car, he shook his head like a wet dog and dug through his bag for the reservation confirmation.
Wolfheather House, The Bend, Isle of Doon, IV55 8GX.
The little square map showed the area ten kilometers around, but the last he’d looked at his phone before it died, he was still fifteen out. Hollis tossed the confirmation aside and restarted the car, scanning the horizon for any sign of the missing driver. The phone chirped—the red battery icon glowing before going black. Three minutes later, it held enough charge to power up, and he reentered the address into Google Maps.
“Now, stay that way, mate.” He gave the phone an encouraging pat, taking one last glance at the abandoned car as he drove off.
Though the music continued, he stopped singing along. Leaving a car like that in a place as isolated as this, it didn’t feel right, especially when the only problem seemed to be a flat. Each time he thought he glimpsed movement, he slowed, but there was never anything to be seen.
A few minutes later, the turnoff for Wolfheather House appeared on his right.
The main road disappeared in the rearview as he accelerated down a bumpy gravel path that, according to Google Maps, did not exist. The blue arrow that represented his car hovered in a tan abyss. After a few minutes, he had started to think this was all a practical joke orchestrated by Linda and the lads at the station when a sharp turn in the drive brought the well-lit house into stark view. Hollis slammed on the brakes.
“Fuck me.”
He grabbed the confirmation page, but the sole picture showed his guest room, not the entire cottage. Or rather, what he had assumed would be a cottage.
Last time he’d been on holiday, it’d been a basement room in the El Something Hotel in Benidorm that smelled of stale lager and flop sweat. Music from the club upstairs had reverberated through his mattress like an unwanted massage. He’d been expecting something on par, if maybe moderately better, but even if Wolfheather House had a cellar, it was probably nicer than his own flat. The three-story brick and stone manor was smaller than the mountains surrounding it, yet presided over the landscape like the lord who must’ve once owned it. The only time he’d seen a house this gorgeous was on Midsomer Murders. But his admiration faded as he continued down the drive. The longer he stared at the once-beautiful Wolfheather House, the more faults he found. Chipped brickwork and broken sashes. Overgrown hedges and weeds nesting in the flowerbeds. Cracked urns flanking the doorway like decorations for a funeral parlor.
As he pulled in next to a banged-up Vauxhall sedan, the bad feeling he’d had on the main road returned. It was the same feeling he’d had when he made Frank Landry pop the boot of his Ford Fiesta, knowing he’d find Catherine Marcus tied up but breathing. It wasn’t instinct alone that had caught Landry, but Hollis’s eye for detail. “Poirot minus the OCD” an old partner had once described him. It helped Hollis remember traits and faces so that Landry’s attempt to conceal his features had looked poorer than a child dressing up for Halloween.
Hollis got out of his car and stared up at Wolfheather. With the sun-light near gone, darkness enveloped most of the house. Unlit windows gave the façade the look of a spider’s many black eyes. Maybe he did deserve this place after all.
Hollis made himself laugh. Adrenaline and exhaustion were getting him worked up. That was all.
He hoisted his kit bag over his shoulder and made his way inside.
The lobby of Wolfheather House warded off the chill outside. In the grand entranceway, a wide staircase laid a red-carpeted path to the next floor. Exposed beams crossed the elevated ceiling; to the left of the main entrance, a peat fire burned in a stone fireplace, filling reception with a welcoming scent that reminded him of his Irish great-gran’s cottage. Two overstuffed armchairs sat in front of the fireplace like a pair of old friends. A forgotten red carryall left a puddle on the floor.
A series of closed doors lined the wall to his right, and muffled voices permeated through one of them—a hushed argument like his parents would have before his father stormed off to his mate’s for the night.
“I don’t care why. What matters is that . . .” A sweating, red-faced young man, a cordless phone pressed to his ear, emerged from a different door on the right and closed it behind him. Tall and lanky with a shock of ginger hair, he looked like a scarecrow that had descended from the fields, a scarecrow wearing a designer suit.
“Hang on. Checking in, aye? Drummond?”