A Parting Gift
A Parting Gift
DI ALEC MCKAY #BOOK 6
Alex Walters
Copyright © 2022 Alex Walters
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The right of Alex Walters to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN 978-1-5040-7639-5
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
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Also by Alex Walters
Books published by Bloodhound Books
The DI Alec McKay Series
Candles and Roses (Book 1)
Death Parts Us (Book 2)
Their Final Act (Book 3)
Expiry Date (Book 4)
For Their Sins (Book 5)
Winterman
Chapter One
Murray Johnson turned off the main road, shifted down a gear for the steep hill, and made his way up the winding track towards the chalet park. He was always cautious coming up here. Visibility was limited by the hedgerows, and guests occasionally came racing down at speeds far in excess of the specified 10mph.
There wasn’t much more he could do to prevent it. There were large warning signs at the top and bottom of the track, and similar exhortations in the information pack provided in each of the chalets. He’d considered adding speed bumps, but he knew that would just provoke complaints. Fortunately, they’d so far avoided any serious collisions, though they’d had the odd near miss.
Today, he reached the top of the track without incident. It wasn’t yet 8am, but it was changeover day at the end of August. Some of the guests would be setting off early to get a head start on the crowds heading back before the start of the English school year.
Sure enough, as he passed through the gates into the site, he saw there were cars being loaded outside a couple of the chalets, parents and children coming and going with suitcases and bags, all trying to pack too many items into too small a space. Murray waved as he passed, and continued along the track towards his destination, one of the chalets at the rear of the park.
It was Murray’s favourite time of the day at one of his favourite times of the year. The sun was well up, sparkling on the blue waters of Rosemarkie Bay but the first taste of autumn was in the air. They were reaching the end of the main season with plenty of bookings continuing into October and beyond. This was typically a more relaxed period, the guests less demanding and less inclined to inflict excessive wear and tear to the chalets.
He parked at the rear of the park and climbed out into the chilly morning air. From here, a twisting path led down through the woodland to the beach below. Murray took the opportunity to stand for a few moments to enjoy the panorama. He’d lived in the area all his life but had never tired of the place. The view changed from hour to hour, day to day, month to month across the seasons.
‘Looks like another fine day,’ a voice said from behind him.
‘Aye, it does that.’ Murray turned. ‘Morning, Fergus. How’s the world treating you?’
‘Not so bad, considering.’ Fergus Campbell never specified what it might be he was considering, but he wasn’t a man to express unalloyed enthusiasm. He was a short, slightly squat individual, seemingly wider than he was tall, although most of what was under his thick sweater was muscle rather than fat. His skin was dark from outdoor working and he looked twenty years younger than his sixty-odd years.
Murray gestured towards the chalet behind them. ‘How’s it going? All ready in time?’ Fergus, a qualified electrician who could turn his hand to most trades when needed, was Murray’s assistant at the farm, and doubled as the site’s handyman. The chalet behind them had needed some internal redecoration following a water overflow a few weeks earlier. At the time, Fergus had carried out the repair and some cosmetic work on the decor, with the intention of completing the job at the end of the season. In the event, the most recent guests had departed a couple of days early because of some family crisis, giving Fergus time to finish the redecoration before the next group arrived.
‘All done,’ Fergus said. ‘Just been checking it’s drying okay. It’ll be ready by the time they arrive. Looks good, though I say so myself.’
‘I’d expect nothing less. Well done, Fergus. One less job at the end of the season.’
‘Aye. Unless some other daft bugger leaves a tap running.’
That was always the problem in the height of the season. All the units were booked back to back, and there was never time to do anything other than running repairs between each set of guests arriving and the next turning up. You just had to hope no major problems occurred. But Fergus, as the man himself knew very well, was worth his weight in almost any material you chose to name. He just had a knack for making things work, and he understood the constraints they had to work under. Between here and the farm, he’d saved Murray a fortune over the years.
‘All full for next week, I’m assuming?’ Fergus asked.
‘What do you think? And we’re still getting calls enquiring if we’ve got vacancies, would you believe? Having to tell people we’ve had no vacancies since this time last year.’
‘It’s been bloody manic, this year. Same everywhere.’ Fergus shook his head as if baffled by the madness of holiday crowds. ‘Though we might struggle without the Americans but every bugger in Br
itain’s come here instead.’
It wasn’t too much of an exaggeration. With foreign travel still uncertain as a result of the previous year’s pandemic lockdowns, large numbers had opted to book holidays in the UK instead. From Murray’s perspective, it had been an even more challenging season than usual. Generally, he knew and was fond of the people who came to stay here. They were people who loved the Highlands, often people who came up here year after year. Some were Scots who’d moved away, some were Americans with roots here, some were English or Europeans who loved the wilderness and the landscapes. They knew what to expect, and most expected nothing more than tranquillity, some half-decent food with the odd dram, and this glorious backdrop.
This year’s visitors had been harder work. Most of them had been likeable enough, but some had clearly had a desire for entertainment or experiences unlikely to be available in the Highlands. They’d complained about the weather, the lack of amenities, or – most commonly – simply the cost of holiday accommodation in the UK. There hadn’t been much that Murray could do about any of that, other than smile politely and direct them towards the many pleasures the area actually did have to offer.
‘Aye, well,’ he said to Fergus now, ‘it keeps us in business. We needed it after last year.’
He left Fergus to finish clearing up his equipment in the chalet, ready for the cleaners who’d be arriving at ten. Murray didn’t usually bother coming up here for changeover day, trusting the two cleaners to make sure everything went smoothly. They’d worked for him for years now, knew the place better than he did and were generally more than capable of handling any issues that might arise. Not that many did. Occasionally, a family overslept, accidentally or otherwise, and weren’t ready by the designated checkout, but they could work around that. Sometimes there was some last-minute complaint or damage to be dealt with, but Murray was available at the end of a phone if needed.
This year, though, given the different profile of the clientele, his presence might be useful. If there were problems, he’d prefer to deal with them straightaway rather than waiting till the guest filed a snotty review on some online site weeks later. He strolled slowly down through the site, enjoying the green patchwork of the trees, the patterns of sun and shadow on the undergrowth.
‘Morning,’ a voice called from the side of the chalet he was passing. Murray turned to see a man loading luggage into the boot of a sizeable Volvo estate. ‘Lovely day,’ the man said. ‘Pity we’re heading back now.’
Murray braced himself for a complaint about the previous week’s weather which had been, even by the most generous interpretation, mixed. But the man seemed content enough. ‘Pity we didn’t get this earlier in the week,’ he continued. ‘But you don’t come up here for the weather, do you?’
‘Not unless you’re terminally optimistic,’ Murray agreed. ‘Been hit and miss this year. Decent at the start of the summer but not so good since. I’m crossing my fingers for a better autumn.’ He gestured vaguely towards the car. ‘Heading far today?’
‘Manchester,’ the man said. ‘Bit of a drive but not excessive. As long as we stop a couple of times to keep the kids from killing each other.’
‘Hope the traffic’s not too bad,’ Murray said. ‘You all had a good time?’
‘Great, thanks. I’ve been wanting to do this for years, but not been able to wean the wife away from the Greek islands. We ought to spend more time exploring our own country.’
As if she’d been summoned by his mention of her, a woman stepped through the front door of the chalet. She was carrying a couple of bulging supermarket carrier bags. ‘I heard that. I hadn’t realised I’d been singlehandedly responsible for dragging us to Santorini.’ She nodded to Murray. ‘Morning, Mr Johnson.’
He’d always made a point of greeting new guests on their arrival, introducing himself, showing them round the chalets and giving them a few pointers about the local area. He recalled meeting these two when they’d first arrived, but he couldn’t remember their names.
‘You’re very lucky to own a place like this, Mr Johnson,’ the woman said.
‘I’m lucky even to live here,’ Murray said. ‘It’s a glorious spot.’
‘It certainly is.’ The woman turned to her husband. ‘Did you tell Mr Johnson about it?’
Here it comes, Murray thought. The last-minute whinge about something in the chalet. When they left it this late to complain, that usually meant they were either angling for a refund or they were launching a pre-emptive strike because they’d left some damage themselves.
The man straightened up from the car he’d been loading while they talked. ‘It’s none of our business, Cath. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘Some problem?’ If they were going to raise some dissatisfaction, he might as well get it out of the way.
The man gestured towards another chalet in the woods along from where they were standing. ‘The people in there. Dawson, I think the name is.’
Murray suppressed a groan. A complaint about another set of guests, then. As if there was anything he could do about that. If they’d raised the issue earlier in their stay, he might have been able to take some action. As if was, he was damned if he was going to agree to a refund just because the neighbours had been noisy or disruptive or whatever the problem was. ‘What about them?’
The man exchanged a glance with his wife. ‘Well, like I say, none of our business, really…’
‘It was last night,’ the woman said. ‘A hell of a lot of shouting and screaming.’
Murray looked over at the chalet in question. It looked to be in darkness, though there was still a car – an imposing Audi saloon – sitting beside it. Most likely, the buggers had got themselves pissed on their last night and were still sleeping it off. He glanced at his watch. Not yet nine, so they had over an hour to get themselves together. ‘I’m sorry if they disturbed you. I can have a word, but there’s not a lot I can do now, I’m afraid. Have they disturbed you previously?’
The man shook his head. ‘No, that’s the point. It seemed out of character. They’d seemed a nice enough couple, and their kids have been playing with ours. We were just a bit surprised.’
Murray frowned. ‘You said screaming?’
Again, the man looked over at his wife, as if hoping she’d take over the conversation. ‘Something like that. What did you think, Cath?’
‘I don’t know, really,’ she said. ‘They must have had the patio doors open at the back.’ Each chalet had rear patio doors which opened on to a decking area where guests could eat al fresco or enjoy barbecues. ‘We could hear some noise earlier. Nothing that was a problem, but it sounded like they might be having an argument.’
‘It was odd because it looked like they had visitors,’ the man said. ‘There was another car parked outside last night.’
‘The real noise was later,’ the woman said. ‘Maybe about ten. We were getting ready to go to bed because we knew we’d have to be up fairly early this morning. I came out for a last breath of air when I heard it.’
‘Cath called me out because she was a bit worried,’ the man said. ‘There was a lot of noise from over there. Shouting, at first. I just thought, well, it’s not our place to interrupt, but it seemed to go on and on.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘Even Cath and I don’t make that much noise.’
‘Then it seemed to get worse,’ the woman said. ‘I thought it sounded like someone screaming. I was wondering if we ought to do something but I didn’t really know what.’
‘Then it just stopped,’ the man said. ‘Just like that. It was weird. One minute there’d been this – I don’t know, cacophony’s the word, I suppose. Then there was silence. We both just stood here. I heard an owl hooting.’ He shrugged at his own anticlimactic conclusion. ‘We didn’t know what to do.’
‘Or if we should do anything. I mean, you can’t just go across and ring someone’s doorbell and ask if they’re all right, can you?’
Although, Murray thought, that was exactly what the couple
clearly wanted him to do. He glanced uneasily over at the other chalet. ‘What about the car?’
‘Car?’
‘You said there was another car outside there last night. Was it still there when all this was happening?’
The man frowned. ‘I’m not sure. What do you think, Cath? Do you remember seeing it?’
‘I think it had gone. I wasn’t really focused on that. Does it matter?’
‘Probably not,’ Murray said. ‘I just wondered.’
‘I wonder if you should go and check that everything’s okay?’ the woman prompted.
Murray’s first instinct was to tell the woman, just as her husband had done earlier, that this was really none of their business. People had arguments all the time. The last thing they’d want was for some busybody stranger to come poking his nose into their business. He was the owner of a bunch of holiday cottages, not a police officer or a counsellor.