Chapter 15
All afternoon Rhona had kept the council workers, Parks apprentices and the repair shop volunteers in hot drinks and toasted Bannocks as they raced against the dying light to install the Christmas figures up the town’s lampposts (now that their fresh coats of vivid paint had dried and been sealed with a quick-hardening lacquer spray) and she’d helped steady ladders and hold the cable ties until her fingers were numb inside her gloves and her nose nipped.
Now she had big evening plans for a bubble bath and a library book recommended to her by Finlay Morlich, who’d established himself as her go-to source of information on the latest romance releases.
No doubt Senga would tut at the clinching couple on the cover, but that wasn’t enough to put Rhona off reading whatever she fancied these days.
So she hurried on, head down in her haste, and only just catching a glimpse of the flashing lights of the first responder car leaving the high street and never once thinking someone was in danger.
It had been such a pleasant, busy day; just the way she liked her Decembers, keeping her distracted from intrusive memories of years ago when an Advent of deep snow and even deeper secrets had ended in heartache.
Passing the ski centre, her attention was caught by the squeaking of hinges and the sight of the little side gate open, which was unusual for late on a Sunday afternoon. All three floors of lights were off but the floodlight was on, illuminating the deserted dry slope.
She would close the gate, just to be a good citizen.
But no sooner had she done so than she heard a squeaking of springing hinges again.
If Senga had been here with her, her sister would already be investigating the source of the noise, and so from long training she decided she’d better follow her example.
Rhona followed the footpath up into the complex and found the ski hire shop door was locked.
A quick peek through the glass told her there was no one in there.
Glancing up at the building, the Ptarmigan and Hamish’s apartment showed no signs of life.
Unable to chase the uneasy feeling that something was amiss and that the frigid night air remained charged with the energy of a recent skirmish of some kind, she thought it best to take a peep around the side of the building.
No cars were parked up, only Hamish’s van, and in front of it, the source of the squeaking; the old lockup, which she never recalled seeing opened in her lifetime, with its door raised and see-sawing on rusty springs.
‘Anybody there?’ she called, wishing she had a flashlight or that she knew how to turn on the torch function on her phone (it only ever seemed to come on when she didn’t want it and she’d have to get someone to help her switch it off). Still, she rummaged for her phone now.
In the shadows cast by the ski centre building she could just about make out the mound of discarded, spilled objects on the tarmac all around the lockup’s gaping mouth. Had she disturbed a burglar?
She was dialling PC Jamie Beaton’s mobile, bypassing those daft Mason brothers at the police station who might laugh at her paranoia if she rang them, when a shape caught her eye, unmistakeable, even though she hadn’t seen its outline in decades.
The unexpected vision conjured up a voice, equally as unforgettable and wickedly playful, saying, “This is of my very own making. Do you like it?”
She stepped over an old rug curled up at its fringed edges.
She shoved aside some old skis and banners and reached out a hand to the dear old thing, all wooden curves and splintered brakes and chewed-through rope reins.
Its once-glossy paint was bubbled and flaked, its runners worn down.
“It’s a toboggan, made for two,” the ghostly voice whispered to her, and as her fingertips skimmed over its planes she felt herself transported to that day when Eric had dug this very same sled from the deep snow and surprised her with an afternoon of downhill thrills, wine, and starlit kisses.
Obeying a sudden visceral instinct to hide the object away, she dragged the toboggan free, sending empty paint pots rolling noisily everywhere, and she hauled the broken old thing home with her, never once questioning if she was stealing or not, only knowing that something long buried had resurfaced, and, whatever had been going on there at the lockup today, tomorrow’s daylight shouldn’t be allowed to illuminate this reminder of her secret.