Читать книгу The Pretender’s Gold - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 9

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 thought 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.

Ewan replied, ‘I thought so at the time, yes. I was sure I’d heard his voice before somewhere. But the more I try to remember where, the less sure I am about it. I might have imagined it. I’m going out of my head with confusion. What the hell am I going to do?’

Boonzie’s reply was unhesitant. ‘Do nothing. Sit tight and wait for me tae get there.’

Ewan realised how foolish he’d been not to anticipate that this would be his uncle’s instant reaction. ‘No. I can’t accept that. I’m not asking you to drop everything and come here. I just thought … to be perfectly honest I don’t know what I thought.’

‘Aye, well, two heads’re better than one. Give me a day to sort things oot here and make the travel arrangements. I’ll be with you as quick as I can.’

‘I hate to drag you away from your home.’

‘The middle of winter’s no exactly the busy season for us,’ Boonzie said with a chuckle. He and Mirella had a seasonal business growing tomatoes and basil, which they canned into purée and pesto for the restaurant trade in their region of Campobasso. They’d never be millionaires, but it was a blissfully peaceful life and exactly what the couple wanted to be doing.

‘All the same. I feel like shit about it.’

‘Wheesht. It’s the least I can do. We’ll have this thing worked oot before ye know it.’

Despite his sense of guilt Ewan was already feeling much better. ‘And then? Take it to the police?’

‘Maybe. First let’s make sure we know what’s going on here. One step at a time, Ewan. One step at a time.’

‘Thanks, Uncle. You’ve no idea how much this means to me.’

‘I promised yer father on his death bed that I’d look after ye, Ewan. That’s what I mean tae do. You’re like the son I never had.’ The fearless Boonzie McCulloch wasn’t afraid of sounding corny, either.

‘Och, stop it. You’re embarrassing me.’

‘I mean it. So you stay put, keep yer head doon and dinnae move a muscle until I get there. Okay?’

‘I will.’

‘Swear?’

‘Absolutely.’

But despite his promise, as the hours passed following their conversation Ewan found it progressively harder and harder to sit twiddling his thumbs waiting. The morning seemed to drag on for ever and he didn’t know what to do with himself. Impatience was building like steam pressure inside him. Shortly after eleven a.m. his rising tension was suddenly interrupted when his landline phone rang again, louder than a train whistle, making him jump.

As he hurried over to pick up, the thought hit him that this could be the poacher calling back to say he’d had second thoughts and would agree to meet and tell him the rest of what he knew. Or else maybe it was Boonzie, telling him he was already at the airport and would soon be winging his way to Scotland. Boonzie to the rescue!

It was neither.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Campbell.’ Ewan felt awkward talking to Ross’s father and didn’t know what to say. The agony of the man’s grief was palpable over the phone line. He sounded like death.

‘It’s about Ross’s van,’ Mr Campbell explained. ‘It’s still here and I suppose you’ll be needing it back.’

Ewan had forgotten all about the van. For some bizarre reason the police had had the recovery service tow it to Ross’s place. Now that he was effectively running the business alone for the foreseeable future, Ewan had little use for two company vehicles, but he replied, ‘Oh, aye. Yes, I suppose I will.’ Then he gritted his teeth and asked how he and Mrs Campbell were doing.

Not well, came the predictable answer. They were both sleep-walking through a nightmare. Eileen was on heavy medication and pretty much comatose. Their doctor was waiting for them back in Inverness, where they would be returning that afternoon to pick up the pieces of their life. Ewan offered some more lame condolences and said he’d come right over and collect the van. Not a task he particularly relished, but at least it’d get him out of the house for a while and give him something to do.

Ross had held a mortgage on a small ground-floor flat in a handsome double-fronted stone house a couple of doors down from the Kinlochardaich Arms, on the other side of the village. It was within easy walking distance of Ewan’s place, and he set off on foot. The wind was cold; he wondered if snow might be on the way.

Seeing the white Peugeot Bipper van parked outside Ross’s flat brought a lump to Ewan’s throat. Mr Campbell appeared at the window, and came outside a moment later to greet him with the same grim-faced demeanour as before. They shook hands and spoke only briefly. Ross’s father handed over the set of vehicle keys that had been among his son’s possessions recovered by the police. Then Ewan got into the van and drove off, feeling miserable.

With nothing better to do when he got home, he set about cleaning out the inside of the van. Ross had not been the tidiest of people. His flat had always been a tip and he kept the company vehicle like a pigsty: crumpled fish and chips packaging tossed negligently into the back, crushed empty Coke cans rolling about the floor, crisp packets stuffed into the glove compartment, dirt everywhere. Tons of dirt. It looked as though his friend had been wallowing about in a bloody farmyard. Tutting and shaking his head, Ewan chucked the rubbish into a bin bag, then went and fetched the vacuum cleaner and started dejectedly hoovering out all the bits of dried mud. Honestly, Ross. Sorry to say it, but what a slob you were.

Ewan was cleaning beneath the driver’s seat when he came across the strange object that had somehow made its way under there. He picked it up and stared at it.

‘Holy shit.’