Follow the Dead

all.

1

Scotland, Cairngorm Mountains, 30 December

‘Round three. Famous characters – fictional or otherwise.’

Gavin winked at Isla as he handed round the Post-its, which she took as a hint that she could probably guess who he would choose – a character out of Star Wars or his current hero, Rick Grimes from The Walking Dead.

Isla wrote down her character’s name and passed it on. As did the others. Then they set about sticking the Post-it they’d received on their foreheads. The purpose of the game was simple. To ask questions which might lead you to correctly guess the character whose name was stuck to your brow, and more importantly, cause as much merriment as possible during the process.

Huddled together for warmth, a blizzard raging outside their stone refuge, laughter was helping to keep their temperature and their spirits up.

I was right, she thought as she spotted Rick Grimes across from her. The chance of Lucy guessing her given character was close to zero, the tale of a walking-dead apocalypse not being on her radar. No wonder Gavin was grinning. As to what Isla had on her own brow, that was causing Malcolm some merriment, which probably meant he’d want her to go first.

Gavin took pity on her. ‘I’ll go,’ he offered.

Isla smiled back at him. After all, he was wearing the character that she’d chosen.

‘Female?’ Gavin began.

A chorus of No.

‘Fictional?’

That particular question had the other three looking at one another in consternation. Should ‘The Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui’ be regarded as fact or fiction? There were plenty of stories about his ghostly presence on Cairngorm. He was the unseen walker you heard behind you, whose appearance brought such an indescribable sense of terror and dread that well-seasoned climbers had been known to flee the hill quicker than they thought possible.

Gavin was examining their expressions. ‘Well?’

At that moment, the howl of the wind round the Shelter Stone increased in volume, whipping snow through the cracks and crevices of the makeshift walls. The fire brick they’d found in the cave and lit, spluttered and for a moment Isla thought it might have been blown out.

Sensing their discomfort, Gavin tried to get them back on track. ‘Fact or fiction?’ he demanded.

Malcolm obliged with a hand signal that seemed to indicate it could be either way.

Gavin went studiously quiet. Isla could almost hear his brain working.

The jammy bastard’s going to get it.

Gavin gave them a triumphant smile before saying, ‘The Big Grey Man?’

‘How did you know that?’ Lucy said in disbelief.

‘Wasn’t that him howling outside?’ Gavin said, all innocence.

His joke fell flat as the high-pitched howl sounded again. This time the fire brick did go out.

Head torches were now the only light in the gloom.

‘Shall we pack up and go to bed?’ Lucy said, her voice a little strained.

‘I agree,’ Isla backed her up.

Their best bet was to get some sleep. After all, they had to try to get off the mountain tomorrow, assuming the conditions improved.

Their intention hadn’t been to spend the evening on Cairngorm, but at Macdui’s inn in Aviemore. The ascent of the deep gully known as Hell’s Lum had been challenging, but sheltered. Emerging out of the deep cornice at the top, they’d only then realized the full strength of the wind bearing down on them from the north – making their planned walk back in that direction impossible. Hence Gavin’s sensible decision that they should drop back down the gully and bivouac at the Shelter Stone for yet another night.

Isla couldn’t help but imagine the scene in the valley below. Macdui’s would be heaving with partygoers, live music and drink. A blizzard raging on Cairngorm was of no significance to them. Tomorrow was Hogmanay and the resort was packed with holidaymakers wanting to bring in the New Year in the Highlands of Scotland. She contemplated the comfortable room and bed where she had hoped to spend the night and, catching Gavin’s glance, decided he was sharing the same thought.

Gavin produced his hip flask. ‘We’ll have a dram, then head for bed.’

The whisky went down a treat. Isla felt its warmth spread. And a double sleeping bag was almost as good as a bed once the lights were out, especially since Gavin radiated heat whatever the temperature.

As they settled down, Gavin removed her forgotten Post-it. ‘Give us a kiss, Princess Leia.’

Isla woke at two, knowing she would have to go outside, despite the weather. No one, but no one, went to the toilet inside the refuge, whatever the circumstances. Isla wished now that she hadn’t had that final whisky.

There was nothing for it but to go.

Unzipping the sleeping bag, she pulled herself reluctantly out, realizing almost immediately that the temperature had dropped further since they’d gone to bed.

It must be easily minus fifteen.

She pulled on her outer garments, then eased her way past the second sleeping bag and crawled out of the crevice entrance. On exit, an ice-cold wind met her head-on, snow immediately gathering on her lashes and mouth.

She would have to be quick.

She realized then that the blizzard had momentarily eased and the powder snow that met her face was being whipped from the surface. Above her, the clouds parted, exposing a half-moon and accompanying stars. To the west, its beams had magically found the long strip of a frozen Loch A’an. For a moment she took in this wonder, then need drove her to locate a sheltered spot via her head torch where she might undress enough to relieve herself.

The snow began falling again as she rearranged her clothing, the wind returning with a force that suggested it had only paused long enough to allow her to go to the toilet. In moments she was surrounded by a swirling snowstorm, fierce and disorientating. Only yards from the cave, Isla was no longer certain of its exact direction. The huge slab of rock that formed the Shelter Stone had disappeared, as had the loch and surrounding mountains.

The force of a sudden gust thrust her to her knees and her head met a nearby rock. Dazed by the impact, she looked up to discover a tall figure beside her as though formed by snow. A gloved hand caught her arm. She thought it must be Gavin come to look for her, then registered that it wasn’t.

‘You okay?’ a male voice said.

She nodded. ‘I came out to—’ She halted, realizing she had no need to explain.

‘You have companions?’

‘Yes, at the Shelter Stone.’

He helped her up, the bulk of his white-suited body shielding her from the wind, and pointed the way. She wanted to ask him who he was and where he had come from, but that would have to wait until they got to the cave. Around her the air crackled as though charged with electricity and behind her the crunch of her companion’s footsteps seemed unnaturally loud and spaced out as though she was being followed by a giant.

The Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui.

She anticipated introducing him as such to the others and their imagined reaction brought a smile to Isla’s frozen lips.

Then, as the curtain of snow briefly parted, she suddenly saw what lay before her. They were going in the wrong direction, heading down the boulder scree towards the loch, rather than upwards to the stone. She turned to tell him this and her head torch picked out his face staring down at her.

As the wind swallowed her words – ‘We’re going the wrong way’ – Isla began scrambling back, her numb hands trying desperately to grip the snow-covered boulders.

Finding her feet again, she rose to face him. And in that moment she knew.

He has no intention of helping me.

His gloved hand met her chest with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. She staggered, losing her foothold on the jumble of snow-crusted rocks. Thrust backwards by the impact, she tried to find her centre of gravity again, but couldn’t right herself before the second punch arrived, this time in her stomach. She crumpled under the impact, bile rising in her throat.

He had chosen the spot well. Behind her was nothing but a steep boulder-strewn slope that even the snow couldn’t soften. He was on his knees now, peering down at her, determined to finish the job this time. Isla made one last desperate grab for her attacker.

I’ll take the bastard with me.

Her grasping hand found his face and she dug her nails in hard. His muffled shriek told her she had hit home.

Then the short fight was over. The third and final impact achieved its aim. As she tumbled backwards, crashing against rocks, rolling, her mouth open in a silent scream, the tall figure melted into the blanketing snow.

2

Glasgow, Hogmanay

‘So, decided yet?’

DS Michael McNab had been going through the book of tattoos for the last fifteen minutes, and had yet to make up his mind.

‘Can I show you what I want covered? Maybe you could suggest something?’ he said.

Mannie looked intrigued.

‘Come on through.’

He held aside a curtain behind which were a series of open booths. Three were occupied. McNab was shown into the fourth, where he stripped off his top half and turned round to let Mannie view his back.

‘Jesus.’ The tenor of his reaction suggested he was quite impressed. ‘You took a bullet?’

McNab nodded.

‘Don’t see bullet wounds often except for a few squaddies lucky enough to return from Afghanistan.’

‘I want it covered.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘I’m fed up answering questions about it,’ McNab said.

Mannie raised his eyebrows, which now disappeared into his forehead tattoos. ‘They’ll ask about the tattoo.’

‘I prefer that. So what do you suggest?’

‘Something Viking?’ Mannie said. ‘They’re popular, since the TV programme starring Ragnar Lodbrok.’

McNab definitely didn’t want a fucking Viking on his back and said so.

Mannie smiled. ‘What about a skull then? We could mask the bullet hole in an eye socket.’

‘That’ll do,’ McNab said, bored now at having to make a choice.

Mannie pointed to a sample on the wall. ‘It’s a lot of ink, but I think it’ll work.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘How old’s the scar exactly?’

‘Why?’

‘If it’s less than a couple of years old it’s not recommended.’

‘It’s fine,’ McNab insisted.

‘Okay. You’re the boss, Detective Sergeant.’

Mannie pressed a call bell and moments later a young woman appeared. Dark-haired, slim, the body skin on show a walking advertisement for her chosen profession.

‘This is Ellie. She’ll be the one to work on you. Skulls are her thing.’ Mannie waited for a moment, expecting McNab to argue. When he didn’t, Mannie departed.

As Ellie set to work, McNab made it plain he had no desire for conversation. Instead he concentrated on the varying degrees of pain the selection of needles offered.

‘You should ideally have something on the other shoulder. Balance things up a bit,’ Ellie said when they took a break. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it today, but you could come back when this heals.’

‘I wasn’t planning on getting shot in the other shoulder,’ McNab said, easing himself up.

McNab had seen that look before. The I’m dying to ask you who, where and why, but not sure how you’ll react look.

‘It was a woman I cheated on,’ he lied. ‘I’m lucky she didn’t shoot a hole through my prick.’

She gave him a smile. ‘We tattoo penises too.’

‘No shit?’ The thought made McNab wince.

Ellie, seeing his look of disbelief, rummaged through a box of photographs, extracted one and handed it to him. The penis on show was coloured like a snake. It was also considerably longer than Mr Average.

‘Of course, it takes balls to have something like that done,’ Ellie told him.

McNab met her challenging look. ‘And I bet you do balls too?’

She smiled. ‘Just inked a guy’s testicles with the words I’m nuts about you.’

McNab laughed and, holding up his hand, said, ‘Okay, you win.’

‘I always do,’ she assured him.

At this she ordered him back into position so that she might complete her artwork. As the needle pierced his skin, McNab tried hard not to imagine it engaging with a more precious part of his anatomy, a thought which bizarrely made him hard.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk. Keep my mind off that photograph.’

‘You talk. I’ll listen,’ she said.

This’ll be a first, McNab thought.

An hour later, he had made a return appointment for the other shoulder, and Ellie had promised to have a drink with him. He decided he was rather satisfied with the morning’s proceedings. A fleeting memory of his last love interest suddenly presented itself. A PhD student at Glasgow University, Freya had had a keen interest in witchcraft, and for a while, him. Until he’d been dumped. A kindness on her part, was McNab’s final thought on that topic.

Emerging from the tattoo parlour, he found the rain had turned to sleet, the pavement now covered in slush. He slithered his way across to his parked car. Forgetting momentarily where he’d just been and what he’d had done, he threw himself inside, where his newly inked back collided with the driver’s seat. The result reminded him of the months after he’d been shot. Sleeping on his front, dosed up with painkillers, if he slept at all.

Give over, you big pussy.

He recalled Ellie’s bare arms and their riot of colour. God knows where else she’d had inked and he couldn’t imagine she was one to complain about pain.

As he fired up the engine, his mobile buzzed an incoming message. McNab’s pleasure at its contents made him momentarily forget his discomfort.

It seemed the Hogmanay special was on.

3

Aviemore, Hogmanay

‘Not bad, eh?’

Sean, on one elbow, gazed down at her.

‘Are we talking about you, the hotel or the weather?’ Rhona said.

‘What do you think?’ He placed a kiss on her lips. ‘What further delights do you have planned for this morning?’

‘It’ll soon be lunchtime,’ Rhona informed him.

‘So we start with lunch and go on from there.’

He rose naked to look out of the window. ‘Snow’s on again. Maybe we should just order room service and stay put?’ His grin suggested he meant it.

‘Don’t you have to set up for tonight?’

‘I do, but not until later.’ Trying to interpret her expression, he offered, ‘What say we go for a drive around then have something to eat?’

‘Sounds good.’

Rhona threw back the duvet and padded to the shower.

The village has grown considerably, Rhona decided, as they took a brief tour round Aviemore. The number of newly built houses stretching up the hill on the northern side of the nearby A9 surprised her, as did the development of Scandinavian-style holiday apartments to the south-east. They’d arrived last night in the dark from Glasgow, so there’d been no chance to see the changes since she’d previously been here.

This part of Scotland was a first for Sean and he was obviously seriously impressed by the surrounding scenery, in particular the view of the Cairngorms.

‘Fancy a run up the funicular?’ he said as they completed their short tour of the village.

‘Okay, but we should check the weather first. My memory of coming here as a teenager was that it could be okay in the valley, and a howling gale up top.’

They decided to take a chance and headed for the Coylumbridge road that led to the ski slopes. The road was black, evidence that the plough had been along, but snow blanketed the surrounding countryside, the branches of the Scots pines stooped low with its weight.

Rhona recalled their trip through Drumochter Pass the previous evening, where they’d been part of a cavalcade of cars following a snowplough in what at times had been a white-out. Sean had done the driving and by the expression on his face had relished the experience.

‘It’s quite magical,’ Sean said of the view.

‘If you’re well wrapped up.’

‘You used to ski?’

‘I did.’

‘But not any more?’

‘Maybe, on a sunny day in the Alps. A howling gale on the summit of Cairngorm, with horizontal ice biting my face, doesn’t offer the same attraction.’

‘And here’s me thinking you were up for anything.’ Sean smiled round at her.

I made the right decision to tag along, Rhona thought. She’d initially turned down Sean’s invitation to accompany him to his Hogmanay gig in the Highlands. Sean rarely played outside the jazz club, or Glasgow for that matter, except for his occasional visits to his beloved Paris. She’d visited that city with him back in the early days of their up-and-down relationship. Rhona smiled a little at the memory of Sean’s determination to entice her there. How she’d eventually succumbed to his Irish charm. But here was different. Aviemore was a trip down a different memory lane, not one Rhona relished taking. She had come here with Edward, her former lover and father of her son, Liam, in the days when she was young and thought she was in love.

A lifetime ago.

Besides, she rarely took time off from her work as a forensic scientist. And it was Hogmanay after all.

To her right Loch Morlich lay unmoving, its surface covered by a film of ice. Beyond stretched the Forest of Rothiemurchus and the towering massif that was Cairngorm.

‘The road’s closed,’ Sean read the digital sign. ‘Due to high winds and snow.’

Rhona had expected as much.

‘Let’s take a walk along the head of the loch instead,’ she suggested.

Sean followed her directions into the car park, which had been free once, but was no longer. They parked up and set off through the ancient pines, where a few hardy souls were camped out in a mix of tents, camper vans and the occasional caravan.

‘They must be mad,’ Sean ventured as he pulled his woolly hat down over his ears.

‘It’s not that bad,’ Rhona told him. ‘With survival clothing and a good sleeping bag.’

‘You’d rather we’d stayed here than at the hotel?’ Sean slipped his arm about her shoulders.

‘Definitely not,’ she said, grateful for his warm embrace.

Ice puddles cracked underfoot and a couple of dogs slithered on the frozen ripples that edged the sand.

‘We should come back in the summer,’ Sean offered. ‘I bet it’s beautiful then.’

Rhona didn’t respond. Planned holidays were not her thing, especially with Sean.

Reaching the far side of the loch, they located the path that followed a burn. Other walkers had paved the way for them, their footsteps visible in the powder snow. The swift-moving river was ice free, except in the stiller waters close to the edge. As they walked, the silence of the forest was broken by the sound of a helicopter. Glancing upwards, Rhona spotted the distinctive red and white shape of a Bristow patrol. With a headquarters in Inverness, Bristow, she knew, had taken over Search and Rescue from the RAF.

‘Trouble?’ Sean said.

‘Probably just monitoring the road.’

As the chopper disappeared into thickening grey clouds, large flakes of snow started fluttering down. In moments the light began to fail, apart from a thin bright streak at the treeline.

‘We should head back,’ Rhona said. ‘Before this gets any worse.’

The car park was empty of all but their own vehicle. It seemed the other visitors had already assumed the weather was about to deteriorate.

On the return journey, the thickening snow forced Sean down to a crawl as the drivers in front took fright at the sudden lack of visibility. Then the roundabout at the entrance to Aviemore came into view. Across the road the bright Christmas lights in the windows of La Taverna Italian restaurant offered a vision of checked tablecloths, warmth and food.

‘Fancy an Italian, in preparation for the long night of celebration ahead?’ Sean suggested.

A quick nod from Rhona saw them tackle the roundabout, then take the exit that led into the restaurant’s car park.

4

Cairngorm, Hogmanay

Hearing the distinctive sound of chopper blades, he looked skywards.

Had someone seen and reported the wreckage?

The white-out had protected him until now, but the appearance of a search team would restrict his movements and make it more difficult for him to locate the girl.

She has to be dead, he told himself once again. His blow had sent her flying. It was a rocky area.

But yet I can’t locate the body.

As soon as dawn had broken, he’d emerged from the Shelter Stone cave and made for the place she’d gone over. Heavy overnight snow had covered the boulder slope and he couldn’t see a body anywhere, although there was evidence of a small localized avalanche which might have buried it. Buried bodies, he knew, were rarely discovered before spring when the snow melted.

And yet. It would be better to make sure.

The red-and-white chopper was back, circling the hill above him, obviously fighting the increasing wind gusts. The weather was worsening. Whatever the reason for the presence of the helicopter, it would have to abandon the hill soon. His clothing wasn’t the bright colours usually sported by climbers but there was still a chance they might spot him. He dipped behind the nearest rock and waited for the beat of the blades to pass.

Did the helicopter’s appearance have something to do with the climbers in the cave or the wreckage on the loch? Or were they simply monitoring the ski road for trapped cars?

Then another thought took shape. One he liked least of all.

What if the girl had survived? What if she’d managed to raise the alarm?

As the chopper headed away, he extracted himself from his hiding place and, checking his compass and position, considered which route he should take out. The most obvious would be to head up Coire Raibert to the ski slopes. Then again if a mountain rescue team did appear, it would likely come from that direction. There was of course another route. Longer, maybe twenty miles, and it would take him back towards the wreckage. Alternatively, he could dig himself a snow hole, and sit it out for a few days. He had both the equipment and supplies, and if he stayed close by, he could monitor what happened.

With an eye on the sky, he made his decision.

5

Glasgow, Hogmanay

‘So, what’s up?’ Chrissy McInsh gave McNab a penetrating look.

When he didn’t answer, she said, ‘You scored last night?’

McNab chose not to respond.

‘You’ve plans to score tonight?’ she tried.

That was one way to describe it.

McNab headed for the coffee machine. Chrissy’s coffee wasn’t strong enough for his taste, but it was a caffeine fix.

‘Well, are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ she demanded.

‘Just visiting my favourite forensic people,’ McNab said with studied nonchalance.

‘Rhona’s not here,’ Chrissy told him.

McNab tried to prevent his face falling, but couldn’t.

‘She’s in Aviemore,’ Chrissy paused for emphasis, ‘with Sean.’

McNab was stuck for a response to that piece of news, so he changed the subject. ‘You have plans for Hogmanay?’

‘Of course. Don’t you?’ she said, with a glint in her eye.

‘I’m working,’ he said mysteriously.

Chrissy was studying him in a manner McNab knew too well. She should be the detective, he thought, and not for the first time.

‘Really, on what exactly?’ she prodded.

McNab assumed his can’t say expression.

‘Piss off, McNab, I’ve more important things to do than massage your ego.’

‘I might be free after midnight,’ he offered, ‘if there’s a party on?’ He assumed a pleading look.

Chrissy laughed. ‘You need my help with your social life?’

‘Always,’ he admitted truthfully.

Chrissy relented. ‘Text me when you’re finished, I’ll let you know where we are.’

McNab retreated then. He would have loved to tell Chrissy what the job was. It had been in the planning long enough, but Rhona’s forensic assistant, with her army of spies, would be one of the first to know once it went down.

Emerging from the building, he found darkness had descended and the snow had come back on. Plus the temperature had dropped considerably, freezing the slush. McNab watched as unsuspecting fellow pedestrians found their feet going out from under them.

A&E will be busy tonight.

Reaching the car, he eased his way out onto the black road which now glistened as the surface water started to freeze. Nearing rush hour, the traffic was nose to tail. McNab took his place in the queue.

Half an hour later he was at his flat. He ordered pizza before heading up the stairs. His plan was to free himself of the cling film he’d been wrapped in (having waited the obligatory two hours), and have a shower. Ellie had been pretty insistent as to the need to keep the inked area clean and had given him a sheet of paper with instructions on it.

In the bathroom, McNab stripped off and stood naked at the full-length mirror, trying not to recall the photograph of the tattooed penis. Gingerly unwrapping the cling film, he stepped under the running shower. Ellie had told him to wash the tattoo three times a day and wear cling film for at least three days, and that included overnight. In fact she’d gone so far as to suggest they wait for thirty-six hours before sharing that drink. McNab had chosen to take that as an indication that she might like to see him naked, before he had the other side done.

Then again maybe she was into cling film.

The sound of the buzzer as he stepped out of the shower suggested that his pepperoni pizza had arrived. McNab quickly secured a towel round his middle and went to answer it. Gus, his usual delivery boy, turned out tonight to be Sandi, a girl. McNab had been looking forward to showing off his tattoo to the person who’d recommended the Ink Parlour in the first place.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I assumed it would be Gus.’ McNab hoped his dripping hair and body would prove that he had just got out of the shower, and wasn’t the weirdo suggested by the look on her face.

Sandi didn’t respond, but merely handed over the pizza and waited to be paid.

‘I have an account,’ McNab explained.

‘I’m new,’ she countered. ‘I was told to get the money.’

McNab went to retrieve his wallet and felt her eyes on his back. On his return, she said, ‘Cool tattoo,’ with what he interpreted as an admiring smile.

McNab quickly paid her, conscious that a pretty girl’s admiration coupled with his own nakedness was having an effect. The door firmly shut, he perched on the edge of the settee, clicked on the TV and set about the pizza. In exactly three hours’ time, his Hogmanay party would begin.

6

Cairngorm Mountain Rescue Centre, Hogmanay

‘Four climbers from Glasgow, all experienced. Two men, two women, mid-twenties.’

Owen Drummond, leader of the Cairngorm Mountain Rescue team, glanced at the window where the wind was fashioning the driving snow into an intricate paisley pattern on the glass.

His long-time fellow team member and local piper, Kyle Dunn, continued: ‘They set off two days ago from Glenmore Lodge. The warden said their plan was to bivouac at the Shelter Stone and make an early start on Hell’s Lum yesterday morning and be back down that night in preparation for Hogmanay.’

The Shelter Stone, the huge slab of rock that had fallen from the crag above forming a natural cavity in the jumble of boulders and granite slabs of the lower slopes, was regularly used as a mountain refuge and bivouac for climbers. Hell’s Lum, which had been the group’s goal, was a deep chimney cleft on the face of a neighbouring crag, its apocalyptic-sounding name incorporating the Scots word for chimney. A serious place full of pitfalls for the inexperienced, and a long way from help if an accident occurred.

‘No communication?’ Owen said.

Kyle shook his head. ‘The weather came in pretty quickly from the north.’

Had the climbers emerged from Hell’s Lum to find a strong north snow-laden wind hitting them head-on, it would have made sense to retreat rather than try to make for the Coire Cas car park.

‘You think they’ll have headed back to the Shelter Stone?’ Owen said.

‘Or made for one of the snow holes along Feith Buidhe.’

If they were experienced, that would be what to expect.

A sudden gust brought his attention back to the window. Owen watched as the powder snow birled in mad pirouettes around the Land Rover, the wheels of which were already half buried.

‘Looks like we might be here for the duration ourselves,’ he said.

The centre was well equipped with plenty of food and a warm bed for the night. So they were a great deal better off than anyone out on the hill. Still, experienced climbers knew what to expect and wouldn’t have ventured onto Cairngorm in winter unless they enjoyed a challenge.

‘I’m planning to bring in the New Year at Macdui’s,’ Kyle said.

‘With Annieska?’

Kyle nodded. ‘She’s working behind the bar.’

‘Better get moving then,’ Owen urged him.

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll maybe catch you later.’

When Kyle had set out like an Arctic explorer into the blizzard, Owen made himself a mug of coffee and settled down with a book. He’d already made up his mind to stay where he was. He didn’t mind bringing in the New Year alone here. Since Shona had moved out, he’d found himself avoiding spending much time at home. Too many memories and few of them good. In fact crossing the threshold of the Aviemore flat they’d shared felt like re-entering a crime scene.

Where I was the perpetrator.

Thirty minutes later, he laid the book down. The shriek of the wind had increased, the driving snow now blocking any view of the yard and the surrounding trees. He hoped Kyle had made it into Aviemore with the vehicle. If he had got stuck, he would no doubt have walked the rest. He could take the shortcut by the railway and reach the village that way.

Owen rose and, abandoning his book and cold coffee, went walkabout, intent on checking that all was secure against the storm. A former Free Church of Scotland place of worship, the building had stood among the ancient Rothiemurchus pines since 1895, the solid stone surviving numerous severe winters and wild storms such as this one.

Owned now by the team, it had been transformed into the Rescue Centre. Designed like many churches in the form of an upturned boat, the big doors that had once welcomed in the faithful now led into a well-equipped kitchen. The room where they’d worshipped had been split in two and housed a small lecture theatre and