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  It was ‘Patch’ Keddie, the one-eyed birdwatcher who was one of the community’s more colourful fixtures, who’d discovered the body floating face-down among the rushes at the edge of Loch Ardaich while on his solitary wanderings in the countryside with backpack and spotting scope, four days earlier. Shocked and upset by the grisly discovery, Patch had hurried to a spot where he could get phone reception and called for an ambulance, but it was already far too late.

  It appeared as if Ross must have been exploring the lochside when he’d slipped and fallen into the water. His surveyor’s van was later found quite a distance away, parked by the fence of the Highland Manor development site. This had sparked much puzzled debate about what Ross was doing down at the water’s edge, a good quarter of a mile or more from the location he’d been surveying. Perhaps he’d wandered over there just to enjoy the magnificent views. In any case, having never learned to swim he had little chance of escaping the freezing cold water. He wasn’t the first victim to have been claimed by the depths of the loch.

  Among the mourners at the graveside was Ross’s partner in the firm, thirty-four-year-old Ewan McCulloch. Head bowed and grim-faced, Ewan was visibly shaken to the core by the loss of his business associate and friend. Though they’d only worked together for five years, like most folks in this close-knit community with relatively few incomers they’d known each other for nearly all of their lives.

  Other attendees at the funeral included Ross’s stricken parents, who now lived near Inverness. Mrs Campbell had wept bitterly throughout the gruelling church service and was so crippled with grief that she could barely remain upright to watch her only child’s coffin go into the ground. Her husband bore his agony in stoical silence, but the expression in his eyes was ghastly to see.

  Katrina Wilson, the ex-girlfriend, was conspicuous by her absence. Nobody was terribly surprised that the untrustworthy little cow had not bothered to show up. Also present were Mairi Anderson, the surveyor’s office administrator; William and Maureen Reid, who ran the Kinlochardaich Arms, the village’s one and only pub; Rab Hunter, the local mechanic who’d known both Ross and Ewan since primary-school days; Patch Keddie, tears streaming from his one eye; and Grace Kirk.

  Grace was a couple of years younger than Ewan, had attended the same primary and secondary schools and then left for a time to pursue a police career in the big city. She’d returned to her birthplace a few months ago and was the only female officer in the area. Today she was off duty and out of uniform, hiding her reddened eyes behind dark glasses as she stood in the back of the crowd with her hands clasped and shoulders drooping.

  When at last the gut-wrenching ceremony was over, there were solemn handshakes and hugs and commiserations and more tears before the assembly began to disperse. Poor Mrs Campbell had to be virtually carried away to the waiting car. Ewan had been hoping to say a few words of thanks to Grace Kirk, but when he turned away from the grave he saw she’d already gone. He shared a quiet moment with Rab Hunter, who clapped him on the arm and said, ‘Rough times, man. You okay?’ Once you got past the intimidating muscles and the piratical beard and earring, Rab was a big softy at heart. His eyes were full of tears and he kept blinking.

  ‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ Ewan lied.

  Rab shook his head and blinked once more. ‘I still cannae get my head aroond it, you know? He was here with us, and now he’s gone.’

  ‘I can barely believe it either,’ Ewan replied, truthfully this time. He, too, was having a hard time adjusting to the reality of Ross’s death. They parted, and he walked slowly back across the cemetery grounds and past the old grey stone church to where he’d parked his van. It was a little white Peugeot with the company name on the door, identical to the one Ross had been driving. Ewan didn’t have a car of his own. His only personal vehicle was a rundown old camper, currently off the road and somewhat neglected. Maybe one day he’d get around to it.

  As Ewan headed homewards he was asking himself the same question he’d been asking for days: What on earth was Ross doing down there at the lochside? He couldn’t have been lost; he knew the area as well as anyone. Ewan didn’t believe he was admiring the scenery, either. Ross couldn’t have given a damn about such things. Had he been drinking? A couple of times in the months since Katrina had left, Ewan had thought he could smell alcohol on Ross’s breath during work hours. Maybe he should have reached out to his friend, offered support, but he’d said nothing at the time. Now he feared that Ross’s emotional state might have been more serious than anyone had supposed.

  At the back of Ewan’s mind was the unmentionable thought that wouldn’t go away.

  Suicide. Was it possible?

  Surely not. Ross wasn’t the type to top himself. But then, every man has his breaking point. What if Ross had simply reached his? What if the apparent uplift in his spirits during his last few days – and yes, Ewan had noticed it too – was really just a desperate man’s last-ditch attempt to disguise the bleak despair that was consuming his heart and soul?

  If that was true, then Ewan had truly failed his friend.

  ‘Oh God, Ross. I’m so sorry.’

  When Ewan got home to the small house in which he lived alone, he went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a stiff whisky from a bottle a client had given him the Christmas before last. He wasn’t much of a boozer, but this could be a good time to take up the habit. He sat down heavily in a wooden chair at the table, gulped his drink and then poured himself another. Mixed up with his grief was the bewildering issue of how the business was going to continue with just him as a solo operator. There was already too much work for two partners, especially if the massive undertaking that was the golf course project went ahead. Ross’s sudden absence left a gaping hole that threatened to swallow Ewan up, too.

  He had been unable to do any work since receiving the news of the death four days ago. He had no plans to go into the office tomorrow either. Nor the next day, most likely. Let’s just sit here and drink, he thought. By the time he’d finished the second whisky the edge was coming off his pain and he decided that a third would help even more. He knew he’d probably regret it, but what the hell.

  Ewan woke up in the darkness. The phone was ringing. What time was it? He must have been asleep for hours, and had no recollection of having moved from the kitchen table to the living room couch. His head was aching and his mouth tasted like the contents of a wrestler’s laundry basket. He should never have drunk so much. Bleary-eyed and disorientated, he managed to get up, turn on a light and stumble across the room to answer the phone. Who could be calling?

  He picked up. ‘Hello?’ he croaked.

  There was silence on the line. Ewan repeated, ‘Hello?’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Is that Ewan McCulloch?’

  The caller spoke in a local accent. His voice was throaty and deep, marked by a pronounced lisp that somehow sounded familiar to Ewan, though very distantly so. He tried to think where he might have heard the voice before, but couldn’t place it. His head was spinning from the whisky. Glancing at his watch he saw it was nearly midnight. He managed to get it together enough to reply, ‘This is he. Might I ask who’s calling?’

  ‘Never mind who I am,’ said the lisping voice. ‘It’s what I know that should concern you. It’s what I saw. I cannae keep it tae myself any longer. It’s not right.’

  Ewan blinked, paused a beat in confusion. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t understand. What are you talking about? Do I know you? Look, it’s very late and I’m kind of tired.’

  ‘Shut up and listen tae me. I’m talkin’ aboot yer man Ross Campbell. That was nae accident, get it?’

  ‘No, I don’t get it,’ Ewan replied, thoroughly bewildered. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘And in case you thought he did it tae himself, think again.’

  ‘Who is this?’ Ewan demanded. ‘Are you sure I don’t know you? Have we met?’ The more the caller talked, the more Ewan was certain he’d heard the voice before, as if in some
other life he could barely remember.

  ‘They killed him.’

  ‘They what? Say that again.’

  ‘You heard me,’ the caller went on tersely. ‘The basturts caught him in the woods, dragged him doon tae the loch and tossed him in the water tae make it look like he drowned hisself.’ He let out a sigh. ‘There. Now you know the truth.’

  Stunned, Ewan carried the phone back to the sofa and slumped into it. Was he dreaming? No, the caller sounded perfectly real. And very sober, serious and sure of what he was saying. ‘But … you’re talking about …’

  ‘Aye, I am. That’s what this was. No other word for it. Cold-blooded murder.’

  ‘I … what … how …?’

  ‘How do I know?’ the caller finished for him with a sour chuckle. ‘Because I was there, that’s how. Fishin’ for salmon that it’s not my right tae fish, if you get my meaning. I was checkin’ my nets when I saw these five men appear from the woods. Thought they were a bailiff patrol at first, so I hid deep in the bushes, wonderin’ how the hell I was gonnae get away. They’ve caught me before. But they didnae see me. They had other business on their minds.’

  Ewan pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to think straight. ‘I … this is just insane.’

  ‘It was near dark,’ the caller went on. ‘But I saw the whole thing clear. As they came closer it wiz obvious that the fifth man, he wasnae one o’ them. They were holdin’ him by the arms like he was a prisoner. He was fightin’ and strugglin’. Yellin’ at them tae let him go. But the poor guy couldnae get away from them and he never had a chance. They hauled him tae the edge o’ the bank. I couldnae believe my eyes. Didnae want tae watch. Next thing there was a big splash as he hit the water. Two o’ them were carryin’ boat hooks with long metal poles, them telescopic ones. He tried tae drag himself up the bank but the fuckers kept pokin’ him and shovin’ him under. Again and again. Took five, six minutes. Maybe longer. I wanted tae do somethin’ tae help. But I was scared what they’d do tae me. Then when he stopped fightin’ and I could see him floatin’ in the water, they prodded him a few more times tae be sure. I heard one o’ the basturts laugh. Then they turned an’ walked back tae the woods. And that was the last I saw o’ them.’

  Ewan couldn’t speak, could barely even breathe. His mind was swirling from much more than a bellyful of booze. Ross, murdered? Was this some kind of crazy dream? Ewan dug his fingernails into his flesh and nipped himself until it hurt, but the caller went on talking.

  This was no dream.

  ‘I could’ve gone tae try an’ pull him from the water,’ the caller said. ‘But I knew he was dead already. I was shocked. Ma heart was thumpin’ so bad, I thought I was gonnae faint. So I just waited until they were gone, and then I legged it. Ran like hell, an’ kept runnin’. I wish I hadnae, but that’s what I did. I just wanted no part o’ it. It wisnae until the next day, when they found the body, that I even knew who they’d murdered. Been frettin’ over it ever since. Cannae shut it oot o’ ma head.’

  At last, Ewan was able to marshal his wits together enough to ask the obvious question. ‘These four men. Who were they?’

  There was a pause on the line as the caller mulled over his reply. When he spoke again, he sounded scared. ‘I’m sorry, Mr McCulloch. It would be mair than my life’s worth tae tell you another word.’

  ‘You recognised them, didn’t you?’

  Another heavy pause. Then, ‘Two o’ them. That’s all I’ll say.’

  ‘Please,’ Ewan said. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘Forget it. I’ve already told you too much. Goodbye.’

  ‘Hold on. Don’t hang up. Please! If you don’t want to tell me, then at least report what you saw to the police. Better still, we could go there together. Tell me who you are. I could meet you somewhere, right now. We could drive up to the police station in Fort William first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Mr McCulloch—’

  ‘We don’t have to tell them about the salmon poaching, if that’s what you’re worried about. Under the circumstances I don’t think they’d even be bothered about—’

  ‘Look, I just wanted you tae know the truth o’ what happened,’ the caller said. ‘Or as much o’ it as I dare tae tell. Dinnae make me regret that I called you. Nobody except you has any clue what I witnessed. I intend tae keep it that way. And if you have any sense, you’ll keep this tae yourself too. That’s all I have tae say. Good night, God bless and good luck.’

  And Ewan was left holding a dead phone. He tried dialling 1-4-7-1-3 to find out the caller’s number and call them back, but the information had been withheld.

  It was only just gone midnight, but Ewan was certain he’d get no more sleep. He couldn’t even close his eyes. He frantically paced the floor, his mind awhirl. Was this some kind of sick joke? The enormity of the mystery caller’s claim was staggering. Ludicrous. Impossible.

  And yet … what if it were true?

  As he went on pacing for the next hour, Ewan reflected on the trouble and anger that the golf course development scheme had stirred up. A lot of folks in these parts were furious about it, not least the self-proclaimed ecowarriors who, vowing never to give up the fight, had plagued the construction company until they downed tools and walked away. A few months back, someone had made a threatening anonymous call to the McCulloch & Campbell office, saying their firm would regret it if they remained connected with the project. Of course, Ewan had reported the call to the police in Fort William, who’d appeared to do nothing about it. For the next several weeks he had kept expecting to find his car tyres slashed or an office window broken, but nothing more had come of it and he’d quickly forgotten the episode.

  However, a lot of other people, including Mairi the firm administrator, had been convinced that it was only a matter of time before someone got seriously hurt. Some of the protesters were a militant bunch. Who knew what they might be capable of?

  Breaking windows and vandalising construction machinery were one thing. Murder was something else entirely. But given that both Ewan and Ross were widely known to be associated with the project, albeit only indirectly, what if …

  Jesus. Maybe it was true!

  The more Ewan thought about it, the deeper his panic grew. He wanted to call Mairi to tell her. But he didn’t want to alarm her until he could be more certain of his facts. Who to talk to, then? The police again? Perhaps Grace Kirk? Even if he’d had her number, she’d only think he was crazy. He had no real evidence. What if it was all a lie?

  It took a long time for Ewan to think of who to call for help and advice. His uncle was retired and had been enjoying a quiet life in the Italian countryside for the last few years, with his Neapolitan wife Mirella. He’d always been there for his nephew, since Ewan’s parents had passed away. He’d spent his career in the army, though he’d seldom ever spoken about the things he’d done and his crazy adventures back in those days.

  Though you weren’t supposed to talk about it, everyone in the family had known Ewan’s uncle was no ordinary soldier, but was involved for a long time in the secretive and hidden world of Special Forces. He was older now, but still strong and wise, a rock you could cling to. Someone you could truly confide in.

  Yes, that’s what Ewan needed to do.

  He soon found the number in his address book. Feeling a little more settled, he managed to doze off for a few hours on the sofa. At six in the morning, seven a.m. in Italy, he brewed a strong coffee, then picked up the phone.

  Chapter 3

  Ewan’s uncle was called Archibald, but nobody called him that. For some reason that had never been too clear to Ewan, the name his uncle had always gone by was Boonzie. Boonzie McCulloch. Ewan thought it might have been an old army nickname that stuck.

  It was a great relief to hear his voice on the phone. Despite having lived for years in Italy, Boonzie’s accent was still as strong as the day he’d left Scotland. He was delighted to hear from his only nephew. But Ewan thou
ght his uncle sounded tired, his voice a little weaker than the last time they’d spoken.

  After spending a couple of minutes on the usual pleasantries, Ewan bit the bullet. ‘This isn’t just a social call, Uncle. I wish it was. Fact is, I’ve got a problem.’

  ‘What kind o’ problem, laddie?’

  ‘The kind I need someone like you to advise me what to do about.’

  Boonzie listened calmly and quietly as his nephew related the whole story: Ross’s death, Ewan’s initial speculations about possible suicide, and the anonymous phone call from the man he could only refer to as ‘the poacher’, which had blown away all the previous theories about the drowning and left him, Ewan, in such a quandary. He told it exactly as it had happened, leaving nothing out. When he finished, Boonzie methodically broke down the facts and went through all the questions that had been flying around Ewan’s mind. Was this real? Could it be some kind of prank? How plausible was the witness’s claim? Could it be verified? Was there any way to identify this mystery caller and get him to come forward, or at least reveal more about what he’d allegedly seen?

  Nobody with a background as tough and dangerous as Boonzie McCulloch’s could have survived as long as he had without being extremely cautious. He was nobody’s fool and his mind was as sharp as the wicked double-edged blade on a Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger. But after a long discussion, Ewan’s uncle could come to only one conclusion. ‘I trust ye, laddie. If it sounds real to you, then it sounds real to me.’

  ‘Part of me wishes you’d dismissed the whole thing as total bollocks,’ Ewan said. ‘I’d have been happy to believe you, and try to forget this nightmare ever happened.’

  ‘Ye say this person sounded familiar,’ Boonzie said thoughtfully.