Chapter 2
TWO
Ross stood up and looked around. ‘Where is this man’s wife?’
As he did so, Archie’s two daughters and their aunt, all crying, had elbowed their way through the rapidly gathering crowd.
‘Mom! Where’s Mom?’ the older girl shrieked, while the younger one sobbed in her aunt’s arms.
Patti had obviously been told because she appeared from somewhere beyond where the others had been standing.
‘Oh my God!’ she screamed, kneeling down beside her husband.
‘Oh no! Oh God!’ She was kissing him now and moaning loudly.
‘Who would do this?’ she shouted, pointing at the graze on Archie’s ear.
‘Oh, somebody do something! Girls, come here!’ She stood up, and both girls rushed into her outstretched arms. ‘You shouldn’t have to see this! ’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Ross said, walking towards her. ‘It’s too late to do anything for your husband, but I’m calling the police now, and they’ll be here shortly.’ He looked around at the gawping crowd. ‘Please stand well back, or go away!’ he shouted. ‘There’ll be no more events today!’
Patti, the girls and Archie’s sister were huddled together alongside Archie’s body, weeping inconsolably. Suddenly, Archie’s sister, Wendy, yelled out, ‘Greg! Where the hell are you?’
Her husband emerged from the hospitality tent looking slightly bewildered, accompanied by the earl. Greg rushed towards the weeping family. ‘Oh, Wendy!’ He embraced his hysterical wife, while staring down at his brother-in-law’s body. ‘How the hell did this happen?’
The police arrived promptly, but the two young constables appeared to be out of their depth, phoning frantically for senior intervention.
One of them had taken Patti, Wendy, Greg and the girls away to the hospitality tent, which was now empty, to await the arrival of Detective Inspector Kandahar.
The other one stood alongside the body shooing everyone away.
The crowd had evaporated rapidly, most of them heading towards the Craigmonie Hotel to recover with a stiff drink.
A few remained, standing well back, gawping with ghoulish fascination.
When Amir Kandahar appeared with the forensic team, he took Ally and Ross to one side.
‘What on earth has happened here?’ he asked, shaking his head and staring at the body. ‘Isn’t this supposed to be a light-hearted, enjoyable, sporty event?’
‘Good question,’ agreed Ally. ‘A shot came out of nowhere and caused him to lose his balance completely. It was obviously meant to kill him!’
‘Well, indirectly the caber did kill him, and that shot came out of somewhere!’ Amir said with a faint smile.
‘Forensics need to study this – we have to get more idea of the exact direction the shot came from, and the constables are combing the area back there right now looking for the gun.’ He turned to Ally.
‘Where were you two standing when this happened?’
Ross pointed back. ‘Around there somewhere.’
‘And you saw nothing unusual going on? People coming or going? The family, for instance, where were they?’
Ally tried to think, wishing now that she’d paid more attention to the spectators than to the brawny bodies. She shook her head. ‘If I’d known…’
‘We’re always wiser after the event,’ said Ross.
‘Well, have a think,’ said Amir. ‘I’ll have to question the family now, which I’m not looking forward to. I’ll bring them back to you later.’
Amir Kandahar was a tall, good-looking South Asian man in his mid-forties who hailed from Glasgow.
Earlier that year, he had replaced Detective Inspector Bob Rigby, who had retired due to heart problems. Ally had had a good relationship with Rigby and had helped him with his investigations on several occasions.
He’d been impressed with her sleuthing skills and had sung her praises to Amir.
As a result, she and Amir had struck up a friendship, and he was inclined to use her as a sounding board.
Ally knew, from their conversations, that Amir had been widowed two years before, and struggled at times to bring up his two teenage daughters on his own, albeit with the help of his extended family.
Back at the malthouse Ally lit the log burner in the kitchen, and she and Ross sat on either side of it, sipping large gin and tonics.
She was dreading the Armstrongs coming back to the malthouse later. What on earth could you say to the widow, daughters and sister of a man who’d just been killed in front of their very eyes in a foreign country?
There must be a certain stigma, Ally reckoned as she sipped her drink, attached to having your most famous guest murdered on day three of his stay in your guest house.
It could be off-putting, to say the least, as far as future bookings were concerned.
Not that it had happened under Ally’s roof, of course, but nevertheless…
She recalled the previous Sunday morning’s conversation with Morag, when she’d mentioned that a family called Armstrong were about to arrive.
‘So long as it’s not that Archie Armstrong!’ Morag had exclaimed, raising her eyes to heaven and her mug of tea to her lips.
‘Well, I think it just might be because that is the name they booked with – Mr and Mrs Archibald Armstrong, their two daughters and another couple who I believe are related.’
At this, Morag had to sit down, hand on heart.
‘Did you not know that he’s the champion Canadian hammer thrower and caber tosser?
Oh my God, just wait until I tell our Micky and our Bobby!
We knew that man was over here earlier in the year competing at other Highland Games, but we thought he’d gone home by now. He calls himself the Atlantic Warrior!’
Ally had no idea about Atlantic Warriors. She’d taken their booking, delighted to have her three guest rooms booked for a week so late in the year. Atlantic Warrior or not, he, along with his wife, two daughters, sister and brother-in-law were all staying in The Auld Malthouse.
Standing at the kitchen window as Morag bustled off to finish cleaning the rooms, Ally had looked out over her garden and the purple hills stretching out behind in the morning sunshine.
It was a good end to the season, and she braced herself to cope with the months ahead.
Sometimes she wondered if her children had been right when they’d tried to dissuade her – then in her late sixties – from purchasing the old, empty malthouse.
Her son, Jamie, had been particularly sceptical about the whole thing, not least because he’d lived close to her in Edinburgh and liked to keep an eye on her.
Her daughter, Carol, down in Wiltshire, was a little more encouraging, knowing about her mother’s love of adventure, but also possibly thinking of free holidays with her family.
For hundreds of years, the building had been used for storing malt for the whisky which had now been moved to more hygienic premises.
She’d come up on holiday and fallen in love with the old place in its glorious setting halfway up the hill beneath the huge, turreted castle towering above and the village straddling the river below.
Should she have stayed in her comfortable Edinburgh flat instead of moving up here and converting this old building?
Good Lord, no, no! Particularly not on this golden September day!
‘What are they like as a family?’ Ross asked now as he refilled their glasses, comfortable in their seats by the fire.
‘Pleasant enough,’ Ally said, sipping her gin. ‘They were very complimentary about the place, and said that, while they were touring Scotland anyway, they’d decided to visit Locharran to compete in the games. Archie had Scottish parents and liked to visit often.’
‘When did they get here?’ Ross asked. He lived a few miles away in a converted barn, closer to the coast, where he had a thriving holiday business.
When they’d become lovers, it was normally more practical for him to sleep at the malthouse where, most of the time, Ally had guests.
On Sunday evening, however, when the Armstrongs had arrived, he’d been at home dealing with some of his own guests who’d arrived very late.
‘They arrived on Sunday evening, as scheduled, in a people carrier. Archie and Patti have Room One, the two girls are in Room Two, and Archie’s sister, Wendy, and her husband Greg Watson, have Room Three.’
‘There was no sign of them being at daggers drawn with each other or anything then?’ Ross asked.
‘No, not at all. They all seemed very happy and friendly, and enjoying staying here. They’ve had the full Scottish breakfast every morning. Except for Patti, who only has tea and toast, or cereal.’
‘So, no problems?’
‘Well, no, but when I asked them if they’d slept well, one of the girls said she’d wakened in the night and heard some funny noises coming from the bathroom and thought it was the wind. Except there was no wind on Sunday night, so need I say more?’
Ross rolled his eyes. ‘God, not Willie again!’
Wailing Willie was the ghost Ally had inherited when she bought the malthouse.
A couple of hundred years back, Willie, a local piper, had broken into the malthouse one night because he’d been told, correctly, that there was a stash of bottles of the end product locked away in an upstairs storeroom.
He’d taken his bagpipes with him and, as he’d drunk his way through the golden liquid, he’d played a few tunes to celebrate.
That was fine until he’d hit the second bottle when, drunk as a skunk, the ‘music’ had evolved into a series of drawn-out wails.
Willie had died a very happy man in what had now become the en-suite bathroom to Room 2.
And his wails always signalled an imminent death.
Ally had been sceptical at first. Ridiculous! Typical village gossip! Until, that is, Willie’s wails had actually forecast several deaths since Ally had moved in.
Ally was becoming more and more concerned about the return of the remaining guests and, draining her glass, stood up.
‘I think I’ll suggest they go into the sitting room when they get back,’ she said, glancing at her watch.
‘Although I’ve no idea when that’s likely to be.
I think I should leave some bottles of spirits and mixers in there for them to help themselves because they must still be in a state of shock. ’
‘They walked down to the games, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, so I expect it’ll be the police who bring them back,’ Ally said, watching as Ross set up a tray with bottles and glasses.
‘I think I can hear a car out there now,’ Ross said, lifting up the laden tray and making his way towards the sitting room.
As Ally followed him, she opened the front door to see Detective Inspector Amir Kandahar standing there. Behind him, the Armstrong family were slowly getting themselves out from the police car.
He looked somewhat weary this evening, and who could blame him? The family had now formed a line behind him: Patti, tearful, make-up smudged, hair hanging limply round her shoulders, was supported by her equally tearful two daughters, with the other couple walking slowly behind.
‘Please come into the sitting room and relax, if you can,’ Ally said, stepping aside to let them enter. ‘Help yourselves to anything you want, and do let me know if I can get you any hot drinks or anything.’
Patti nodded, let out a wail and collapsed on the sofa. The tear-stained girls plonked themselves down on either side of her, holding her hands. The only person who seemed to be in control was Greg Watson, husband of Wendy, who was still weeping openly.
‘This is real kind of you,’ he said to Ally. ‘I guess we just need to sit here quietly for a while in this beautiful room of yours and get our strength back.’ He took a deep breath. ‘These four gals have been through hell this afternoon.’
One of the girls – was it Janey or Julie? – stood up suddenly. ‘Someone’s just killed our daddy!’ she shouted before falling back onto the sofa again and cuddling up to her mother.
‘I am so sorry,’ Ally said. ‘I really don’t know what to say other than if I can help with anything in any way…’ Her voice tailed off.
‘I guess we’ll all have a nightcap before bed,’ Greg said. ‘How about it, everyone?’
Nobody paid much attention to him, and so Ally thought this was a good time to take her leave. She retreated to the kitchen where, to her surprise, Amir and Ross were drinking tea together.
‘Just thought I’d wait and have a quick word with you,’ Amir said. ‘Obviously these people are in a state of shock at the moment, but tomorrow might be telling.’
Ally frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just watch them. They might revert to type,’ Amir replied.
Ally was aghast. ‘You don’t think…?’
‘I don’t think anything. But someone shot Archie Armstrong, even if it was indirectly, and we can’t rule anyone out, not even his own family, not all of whom were close by watching, I’m told. Can you remember seeing them all watching Archie?’
‘I remember seeing the girls at the front, and Archie’s sister was somewhere behind but, now you come to mention it, I don’t remember seeing Patti, but I think I saw the brother-in-law somewhere around the hospitality tent. But they’re all devastated!’
‘That’s as may be,’ Amir said enigmatically. ‘Thanks for the tea. I’ll probably call in again tomorrow.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. ‘Sleep well!’
Unlikely, Ally thought as she closed the door behind Amir and stood for moment in the hallway.
When she’d had the old malthouse converted, she’d had this spacious hallway made, with an oak staircase leading up to the three en-suite bedrooms. The rooms on either side on the ground floor had become a dining room and sitting room respectively.
To her right, she could hear the murmur of subdued voices from the sitting room as her guests drank their nightcaps, still shocked at the day’s events.
Ally, lingering for a moment longer in the quiet hallway, had never dreamt that she’d be plunged into another murder investigation and realised, as she headed to the kitchen to tidy away the tea things, that she was feeling extremely apprehensive about what tomorrow might bring.
No, it was very unlikely she’d sleep well.