Shot Through The Heart (Supernature Book 1) (6 page)

"Many thanks," said Mark.

He left the building and walked down the high street, squinting in the midday sunshine, past the small shop that mainly sold local and day-old national newspapers. He had tried first thing that morning, but had drawn a blank on sightings of Kay. The houses that lined the street were generically Scottish - he could have been in Fife, Ayrshire or Angus.
 

The blacksmith was the last building on the right, a stone cottage, painted white, with dormer windows upstairs. He rattled the door, and eventually it was answered by a tiny old man.

Mark thought that he resembled a dwarf from some Tolkienesque fantasy, practically a barrel on legs, with a long beard and bald head.

"How can I help?" asked the blacksmith.

Mark introduced himself.
 

The blacksmith looked at Mark. "Do you want to see my forge?" he asked.

"You've got a forge?" asked Mark.

"Aye," said the blacksmith. "Got one in the garden. How else do you think I make rings?"

Mark could picture the man going on an endless quest for one of them. "I thought you just made horse's shoes," he said.

"There's a fair amount more to the ancient art than horseshoes," said the blacksmith. "Have you come for a wedding ring?"

Mark smiled at his persistence. "No, thanks," he said, holding up his hand, "I'm already married."

"Aye, what about for your next one, though?" asked the blacksmith.

Mark laughed. "I wasn't planning on remarrying," he said.

"You've got a glint in your eyes, laddie," said the blacksmith, "that's for certain."

"I've just become a father," said Mark. "I've got a six-month-old daughter."

"Well, if you insist that's where your sparkle comes from," said the blacksmith, "then who am I to judge?"

"I'm looking for someone," said Mark.

"See, I told you it wouldn't be the last time," said the blacksmith.

Mark was getting impatient. "An employee of mine has gone missing," he said. "A young woman, name of Kay McGregor."

The blacksmith tugged at his rugged beard, then suddenly whistled. "Oh aye, her," he said. "Very pretty young lady, indeed."

"You know her, then?" asked Mark, his spirits suddenly raised.

The blacksmith nodded again. "Aye, lad, she chatted away to me in the pub a few times," he said. "Come away inside, the kettle's just boiled and I've got a pot of tea on."

Mark had drunk four cups in the tea room, but still followed him into a small dark room.
 

The blacksmith pottered around in the kitchenette just off the lounge, and eventually came through with a tray carrying two cups, a jug of milk and a metal teapot with a wooden handle. Mark wondered if it had been fashioned in the forge as the blacksmith poured out two cups.

"Best cup of tea in the village," said the blacksmith, taking a sip though it was still boiling hot, "even if I do say so myself."

"You've not got much competition," said Mark, thinking back to the dire pot Harris had served first thing, though the tea room hadn't been too bad.

"Now, son," said the blacksmith, "seeing as how you're not here for my crafts, how can I help you?"

"I'm looking for my researcher," said Mark, frustrated at the blacksmith's appalling memory.

"Oh aye, as I said, I saw her in the bar up at the Hotel a couple of times," said the blacksmith. "I'm not much of a drinker, you understand, but I occasionally like a game of darts or dominoes."

"Did you see her speaking to anyone?" asked Mark.

The blacksmith shook his head. "She was just sitting at a table," he said, "keeping herself to herself, working at one of them computers that you can take about with you."

"A laptop?" asked Mark.

The blacksmith's eyes filled with wonder. "Is that what they're called?" he asked, eyes glazing over. "Well, I never."
 

Mark took another drink of tea. "I'm writing a book on the Highland Clearances," he said. "Just wondered if you had any opinions on it?"

"And why would I?" asked the blacksmith.

"Well, you have an ancient craft," said Mark. "I'd be surprised if you didn't have an opinion."

"Well, it's true my family have been doing this for a long time," said the blacksmith. He took a deep breath. "What do you want to know?"

"Just your point of view," said Mark.
 

"It's a fair bit lower than other people's," said the blacksmith, his beard twisting into a wide smile.

Mark laughed, then explained his approach to his work - the three waves and the mystery around the middle one, the so-called First Wave.

The blacksmith whistled. "You're brave, son," he said. "I'll say that for you. Especially with a name like that."

"The Clan Campbell wasn't explicitly involved in the Clearances," said Mark. "It wasn't a key perpetrator."

The blacksmith grinned. "Aye, well," he said, "next you'll be exonerating them for Glencoe." He took a deep breath.
 

"The Clearances. Nasty business, driven by greed and envy. The Chieftains were supposed to protect their Clans, not betray them. They weren't special, weren't put there by God or whatever people might believe. They were just stupid men, blighted by their own greed and ignorance."

The blacksmith shook his head and stroked his wild beard. "Deforesting the land, introducing sheep, pushing crofters from their feudal homes. It was barbaric - worse than your lot at Glencoe, I have to say."

Mark wrote it all down in his notebook. "So, it's not well regarded around these parts?" he asked.

"Hardly, son," said the blacksmith. "There were folk tales of grave misdeeds, generally in the First Clearance."

Mark was suddenly interested - it chimed with what he'd heard from John. "What sort of thing?" he asked.

The blacksmith beamed. "Lost in the mists of time, I'm afraid," he said. "We used to have songs as kids, you know? Like
Ring-a-ring-o'-roses
, children's songs that actually tell a very interesting adult story."

"How did they go?" asked Mark, scribbling it down.

"Something about someone's head being on fire," said the blacksmith, "and their claws being out."

"What's that got to do with the Highland Clearances?" asked Mark, frowning while he jotted.

The blacksmith paused for a few seconds. "If I remember," he said, "there was one song, something about the land being cleared of some blight and filled up with sheep."

"Can you remember any more?" asked Mark.

"Sorry, lad," said the blacksmith. "Sure I can't tempt you with a ring?"

Just after one o'clock, Mark's stomach told him to eat so he headed back to the tea room. No matter how far north he travelled, he was astonished to trace the spread of the panini. He eventually settled for a brie and cranberry panini, though he'd much rather have had some traditional Scottish fayre. He'd stick to the hotel in future, even if the tea was dreadful.

As Mark chewed through the sandwich, having decided against touching the crescent of soggy crisps, he felt a draught of air as the door flew open. He looked round and saw a group of seven people in their mid-twenties file towards a large table. They sat down, laughing and jostling with each other.

He finished his sandwich and sank the rest of the coffee - despite the quality of the food, the latte had been delicious. Maybe he would go back.

The proprietor finished fussing with the newcomers, then headed over to Mark. "Can I get you anything else?" she asked.

"Just the bill," said Mark, smiling.

As he used the Chip and PIN machine, he nodded towards the group in the corner. "Who are they?" he asked.

She glanced around and then leaned in close. "They're from the
centre
," she said.

"Centre?" asked Mark, having no idea what she was on about.

"Aye," she said. "The centre." She handed him the receipt, then returned to the till.

That intrigued him. The
centre
? What could she mean? He got up and ventured over. As he approached, all eyes turned to him. A couple of them nodded.

"How can I help?" asked the eldest-looking, a man in his mid-thirties with the sort of beard that would do ZZ Top proud.

Mark gave his speech about his book and his theories around the Highland Clearances, now honed almost to perfection. It wasn't good enough.

"Fine," said the leader. "I hear you. Do you want to hear us?"

"What do you have to say?" asked Mark.

"Spiritual enlightenment," said ZZ Top, "that's what we've got to offer. If you're interested, then you can have it. But only if you're willing."

Mark was suddenly aware of the eyes of the group on him. "Not my scene," he said.

"Clearly," said the leader, with a smirk. "Let us know when you're ready. Otherwise, clear off."

Mark turned on his heels and quickly left the tea room.

Ivor showed Mark back into the same drawing room as the previous evening, though it was empty now. Mark carried his laptop case with him, full of recording equipment.

"Will Lady Ruthven be long?" asked Mark.

Ivor shook his head.

"She'll be here soon, then?" asked Mark.

Ivor nodded.

Mark wondered if the giant actually understood what he was saying.

Ivor gestured for Mark to sit down on the settee. Instead, he sat on the armchair in the window. Ivor set about starting the fire, striking a long match and placing it against some newspaper. Mark was already hot. Ivor left him to it, closing the door behind him.

Mark took his laptop and notebook out, selecting the newest fountain pen he'd bought - a bit of late-night online shopping after he'd sunk a bottle of red wine one evening. He set his dictaphone and mobile up to record the interview.

The door opened and Elizabeth entered, wearing a figure-hugging dress and looking even more voluptuous than the previous day. Her cheeks were filled with pink and she wore red eyeliner that matched her lipstick, complementing her hair, which was tied back in a loose ponytail.

"Mark," she said, giving him a vampish look, hand on her hip, "very good to see you again. I was beginning to wonder whether you would come. It's not good form to stand a girl up."

Mark smiled as he got to his feet. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "The wind was against me as I cycled over."

"You cycled?" she asked, kissing him on both cheeks.

Mark froze as she sat down on the settee.

"I like to keep fit," said Mark, his voice stammering. "I just didn't expect the wind to be so strong in the middle of summer."

Elizabeth laughed, then grabbed his hand and pulled him gently down onto the sofa, so he was sitting next to her again. "The wind will get better," she said. "The currents in the lochs are playing merry hell with the weather system, sucking the warm air in. Come the first week of July and the wind will abate. In fact, it will actually switch direction, would you believe?"

"I know the wind patterns around Edinburgh," said Mark, thinking of his many excursions into East Lothian and its microclimate, "so I can sympathise to a certain degree."

"Ah, Edinburgh," said Elizabeth, tossing her hair and reclining on the sofa, her arm resting on the back. "I've not been there in such a long time. One of my favourite cities."

Ivor appeared just then, carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and some porcelain cups. He placed them on the table in front of them and poured the coffee. Elizabeth nodded at Ivor to leave them to it. Mark was going to ask for milk, but he decided against it.

"Now," said Elizabeth, leaning forward and exposing her cleavage, the purple lace of her bra visible. Try as he might, Mark's eyes kept returning to it. "I believe that you are looking for a
woman
?" She bit her lip suggestively.

Mark was tongue-tied - the way she spoke made the back of his neck burn. He couldn't decide if she genuinely didn't remember phoning him and making him travel hundreds of miles, or whether she was coming on to him. He decided to play the daft laddie, as the alternative would just be too much. "I'm looking for my researcher," he said. "Kay McGregor."

"Yes, yes," said Elizabeth, waving her hand in the air. "We discussed this last night, didn't we? Just before you rudely refused my hospitality."

"I didn't-"

Elizabeth held up a hand, a cheeky grin on her face. "I know when I'm being knocked back," she said.

"I wasn't-"

"Relax," said Elizabeth. "I'm just toying with you." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm made of much stronger stuff than that. Besides, you'll keep."

"Okay," said Mark, not really knowing what to say or what to make of it. "So, then, Kay?"

Elizabeth blew on her coffee. "Well, what can I say," she said. "She phoned me on Saturday to arrange the meeting on Monday. And that's how I got hold of you. She was a bit of a name-dropper, you know. 'I'm working for Mark Campbell'."

She dipped a finger into the coffee and licked the droplets off. "Well, I had to look you up on the computer to check the veracity of that statement. I get no end of gold diggers in the castle, I'm sure you can imagine. You aren't a disappointment in the flesh, put it that way."
 

Her brow creased momentarily. "You can also see that they are wasting their time - the gold in this place is long gone, I'm afraid. It's just me and my daughters now. We've got enough to survive, but that's about it."

"Do you ever think about selling up?" asked Mark.

Elizabeth patted him gently on the arm. "That's out of the question, I'm afraid," she said. "I couldn't betray my ancestors."

Mark nodded. "I can understand that," he said. He opened the notebook at a new page. "Now, down to business."

"I was wondering when you'd start with me," said Elizabeth.

Mark took her through his, by now, standard spiel about the Highland Clearances and his particular approach. The more often that he went through it, the more formulaic it sounded and the dafter he felt. His conscious mind drifted over the story while he examined her - she was rapt.

"Three phases," she said, once he'd finished. "I'd never thought of it like that." She looked animated, her eyes dancing around. She got to her feet and looked out of the window. "Shall we take a stroll outside?"