Waterfall Glen (33 page)

Moments later a burly silhouette appeared against the quicksilver of the loch. The figure moved to the back of the vehicle, raised an arm and opened the top half of the hatchback trunk, then lowered the bottom half. There was a scraping, as if something heavy was being dragged from the trunk. The figure stooped, and for several seconds the silhouette was lost in the shadowy bulk of the car before reappearing against the lochan as the man carried a big crate down towards the water’s edge.

Cameron knew he was too far away for his flash to reach the Range Rover, let alone cast any light on what the man was doing down by the water, but he was too afraid to
move closer. He just stood there, watching the silhouette disappear as the man squatted to set down the heavy crate.

After several seconds of noisy splashing the silhouette reappeared as the man stood up, lifting the crate easily now that it had been emptied.

Watching the man walk back to the rear of the Range Rover, Cameron’s legs were shaking, his whole body damp with the fear sweat that had been confined to his palms moments earlier. He was almost physically sick at the thought that he’d blown the chance to capture the man on film, and at the knowledge that he’d never be able to look Kate Brodie or Finlay McRae in the eye again as a result.

Filled with self-loathing, he waited for the man to close the boot, knowing the sound would have a finality that marked the end of his own hopes of ever finding happiness.

But instead of the soft thud of a closing door there was more scraping.

The man was taking another crate from the boot.

Feeling nothing that could happen to him in the moments to come could be as bad as the prospect of the future he’d been faced with moments earlier, Cameron slung the Nikon around his neck and padded quickly but silently out of the church and down towards the Range Rover.

He got to the edge of the narrow shingle beach just as the silhouetted man set the crate down at the water’s edge, no more than half a dozen yards away. Taking a deep breath, his hands shaking, Cameron tried to raise the camera.

Nothing happened. He felt powerless to move, capable
only of listening.

The scrape of a crate being opened was followed by the frenzied splashing of living things entering the water.

The sounds somehow brought Cameron to life and, before he knew what he was doing, he raised the camera and pressed the shutter. Suddenly the night was ablaze with a cone of light as the flash fired, illuminating a stocky figure crouched at the edge of the lochan and a crate of big-clawed, lobster-like creatures that thrashed furiously when they entered the water. The man turned in surprise to face the blinding light. Cameron kept his finger on the shutter and fired off the whole roll of film. The man in front of him was captured in an action sequence of postures that went from crouching to standing, and a range of expressions from shock to snarling anger and then a mocking, challenging look that was even more intimidating than the snarl.

By the time the camera’s motor drive had fired off the last frame of film the man was advancing towards Cameron, into a slanting shaft of moonlight. Despite never having seen Tony Carling before, Cameron knew from Kate’s description that he was facing the Yeoman boss now.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Cameron said, trying in vain to keep the fear from his voice.

“A little fish farming of my own,” the man said in a London accent. He took another step towards Cameron, saying, “Now hand over the film, and I’ll let you keep the camera.”

Cameron stood rooted to the spot. He wasn’t giving away anything in terms of height or age, but knew by Carling’s bull neck, heavy shoulders, and barrel chest that he was giving away a lot in weight—and could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that he was giving away even more in terms of aggression. He tried to summon up the courage to fight a battle that he knew was well worth fighting …

But wasn’t able to, because he knew it was a battle he couldn’t hope to win.

Reading Cameron’s expression and what lay behind it, Carling sneered and reached for the Nikon.

There was something about the look on Carling’s face in that moment that reminded Cameron of the expression on the face of the bully who’d herded the woman with the purple headscarf onto the cattle truck—and suddenly, without thinking what he was doing, Cameron clenched his right hand into a fist and threw a haymaker that came out of the past and all the way up from his hip, connecting solidly with the other man’s jaw.

Carling staggered back but didn’t go down. Cameron knew he hadn’t knocked the fight out of him, but somehow he wasn’t scared any more. Instead of thinking about how he might get hurt in the coming fight, he was thinking about a crofter’s gutted cottage and a bride’s ruined wedding …

About Finlay McRae standing on a Normandy beach at the age of nineteen and playing
Highland Laddie
…

About Glen Cranoch and Kate Brodie, and how they were so well worth fighting for.

In place of fear, Cameron Fraser felt a wild abandon, and as the big Londoner took a step forward the Scotsman stepped in to meet him, hands raised in a high guard.

Just as they were about to close to striking distance a face appeared in the slanting shaft of moonlight Carling had just walked through.

Carling saw Cameron’s apparent distraction, and thought it was a crude ploy to divert his attention. “You’ll have to do better than that, Jock,” he said.

His smile froze when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned around in time to receive a heavy blow to his cheek with the butt of a shotgun, knocking him flat on his back and out cold.

Standing over the fallen Englishman, Finlay McRae said, “That was for wee Hamish and Double Ecky.” Then he winced with pain and clutched at his chest.

“Finlay, are you okay?” Cameron said, fearing the old man was having a seizure.

Finlay managed to smile through the pain. “Aye, it’s just my ribs,” he said. “But it was worth it.”

“Where did you appear from?”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a wee walk up to the shooting blind, just in case the chance presented itself to settle my account with Mr. Tony Carling. My compliments on the way you settled your account and Miss Brodie’s, by the way. Oh, to be young again,” he added wistfully. Gesturing to the Nikon around Cameron’s neck, he said, “I take it from the flash of your camera that you got some photos?”

Cameron nodded. “I’m not sure what he was up to, though.”

Finlay walked over to the wicker crate by the edge of the lochan. There was one thrashing creature left in it. Shining a torch on it, he said, “American crayfish!” in disgust.

“I don’t understand,” Cameron said.

“They’re vicious predators that eat everything else around them. They would have been the kiss of death if we had been planning to start up a fish farm.”

“Has he broken any laws by releasing them into the loch?”

“Aye, he has, indeed. It’s just a pity he won’t be convicted for the fire in Double Ecky’s croft and causing the Land Rover crash as well. Still, when your photographs appear in the paper, I don’t think anyone will have the slightest doubt about what’s been going on in The Cranoch over the last couple of weeks.”

A groan told them Tony Carling was coming to. Finlay shone his torch on the fallen man, who blinked and rolled over onto his side before struggling groggily to his knees. Finlay handed Cameron the torch and, shotgun in his right hand, used his left hand to grab Carling by the hair. “If you ever, ever set foot in The Cranoch again, I swear I’ll use the other end of the gun on you,” Finlay said before swinging Carling’s head down so forcefully that the Londoner ended up on all fours.

Turning to Cameron, Finlay said, “Now, Mr. Fraser, I think it’s time to go home.”

And they did. Finlay McRae whistled
Highland Laddie
as they walked alongside the lochan in the moonlight, and Cameron Fraser thought about his Highland lady.

It was almost dawn by the time they got back to Greystane. Cameron went up to the lounge to phone the police, while Finlay headed for the kitchen to fix up some breakfast. There was a light in the window, and when he opened the door Kate was sitting at the table, hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa.

“What are you doing up at this hour, lass?” Finlay asked when he entered the lean-to.

“I couldn’t sleep for worrying about Cameron. What are
you
doing, Finlay? You look like you’ve been up and about for ages.”

“I took a little walk to the far end of the glen to keep Mr. Fraser company.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, lass. Everything is just fine.” He poured himself a mug of tea, and said, “There was a wee spot of bother, but it’s all taken care of.”

“What sort of bother?”

“Nothing to trouble yourself about.”

“Finlay! Where’s Cameron?”

“He’s just giving the police a little phone call.”

“Finlay, what happened?”

And then Finlay was recounting the events at the far end of the glen, glad to have someone to tell them to because he was proud of Cameron Fraser and wanted to share his pride.

When Cameron came back, Kate waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, she said, “Is everything okay?” She waited for him to tell her what had happened in his own words, talk about the part he’d played.

But he didn’t even hint at it. He just nodded, and all he said in his quiet voice was, “Yes, Kate, everything’s okay.”

She threw her arms around him, loving him not just for the courage he’d found, but for the modesty he hadn’t lost, and believing him when he whispered, “Everything’s going to be all right, Kate.”

“Y
OU HAVE TO HAND IT TO HIM, THE
A
MERICAN CRAYFISH
was a nice touch,” Harry McLaren said.

The
Inverness Morning Herald
reporter was standing with Cameron and Kate outside the town’s sheriff court. “With Lady Kate being from the States, a species from America scuppering plans for a fish farm has the sort of irony that would have added weight to the notion of a curse if it hadn’t been for these.” He looked at Cameron’s grainy black and white photos of Tony Carling poised beside a crate at the edge of the lochan. “Talk about being caught in the act,” the reporter said, chuckling away to himself. “It’ll be tomorrow’s front-page lead. We can’t explicitly blame Carling outright for things he hasn’t been found guilty of, you understand, but you won’t have to read too far between the lines to realise what’s been going on in the glen.”

“I can’t tell you what a relief this is,” Kate said.

“I can let you hear what I’ve got so far, if you’d like …”

Kate nodded.

The reporter took a spiral-bound notebook from the
inside pocket of his tweed jacket and started reading the shorthand he’d scribbled in its pages: “‘A London businessman has been fined £1400 at Inverness Sheriff Court after the latest in a series of incidents apparently intended to add weight to the notion of the so-called Curse of The Cranoch.

“‘Tony Carling (36), of Westminster Way, admitted willfully releasing a non-native species, namely American crayfish, into the lochan at Glen Cranoch in the early hours of Tuesday in contravention of the Wildlife and Countryside Act (1981).

“‘Carling is chairman and managing director of Yeoman Holdings, the property firm which has been trying to buy The Cranoch Estate in the hope of turning it into a leisure resort.

“‘The dramatic photo above’—I’m not sure which one we’ll use, but they’re all pretty dramatic—’led to a change of plea when produced as evidence in court. The picture was taken by Mr. Cameron Fraser, a close friend of Lady Kate Brodie, the American heiress who recently inherited the estate.

“‘Apparently suspecting foul play was afoot after recent incidents in the glen—including a fire which destroyed a bride’s cottage on her wedding day, and a car crash caused by brake failure—Mr. Fraser and ghillie Finlay McRae set about trying to prove their suspicions. This photo was the result.

“‘Asked outside the court whether he had been
attempting to add substance to the notion of a Curse of The Cranoch, and intimidate Lady Kate into selling the wildly beautiful estate, Carling refused to comment.