Almost Lost: Book Iii of the Dunmorey Trilogy

By Ian McLaren

A Jock Anderson  crime story. A series of brutal murders in Scotland, a spate of killings in Paris, deaths in Portugal, all part of a conspiracy, a highly organized plot by international Arab terrorists.

The third of four books in the Jock Anderson Crime series, all of which have 5-star ratings.

Almost Lost is referred to as Book 111 of the Dunmorey Triliogy. This is a misnomer and confusing in that it means only that the stories centre on the Highland estate of Dunmorey. The book stands alone and is not sequential to books 1+11.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Nov 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781456895921

Ian McLaren

Ian McLaren is a retired Veterinary Surgeon. Though a native of the Highlands of Scotland, most of his professional life has been spent abroad. He currently lives in South Africa where he farms with his wife.

Book preview

Almost Lost

Book III of the

Dunmorey Trilogy

Ian McLaren

Copyright © 2013 by Ian McLaren.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011904987

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4568-9591-4

Softcover 978-1-4568-9590-7

Ebook 978-1-4568-9592-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 11/26/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

0-800-056-3182

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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Contents

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 1

A g ust of cold wind blew a flurry of ice crystals into the face of the man lying in the snow. He slowly wiped his eyes with the back of his fingerless glove then tucked the stock of his rifle back into his shoulder. To his right, a second prone figure shifted himself uncomfortably; he sucked his fingertips and whispered to his companion. ‘Bloody hell Calum; I’m freezing—are you sure they’ll come?’

‘They’ll come Colin, be patient. They’ll come. Just you be ready—and hold that rifle as if you mean to use it.’

Colin resettled his rifle and spied through the telescopic sights. ‘Bugger all to see: just a lot of bloody trees.’

A third figure lying to the left of the others hissed and pointed above and slightly behind him.

Calum slowly turned his head and looked up the hill. A group of hinds was emerging from the woods above. He whispered to his companions. ‘They’ll keep to the edge of the trees where there’s less snow, then they’ll cross the burn and go down the top of the far bank where the snow’s firm on the crest.’

Lying among some young pine trees the shooting party was invisible to the deer, and with the wind in their favour the animals wouldn’t catch their scent. All thoughts of the cold forgotten, the men watched as the deer followed the path Calum had predicted. Silhouetted on the crest, at no more than thirty yards distant the deer offered the perfect target… but they were moving, slowly and unhurriedly on their journey to graze on the flats in the glen below.

‘You ready Colin?’

There was a grunt from Calum’s right.

‘I’ll take the second from the front. The one at the back of the group… you take her. Two nice fat hinds. I’m going to make a noise—they’ll stop and have a listen long enough to give us a shot.’

Colin was making to say something when Calum made a sharp dog-like yelp; the deer stopped in their tracks and looked in their direction. Calum hissed ‘now.’ Two rifles fired in unison. Calum nodded in satisfaction as the hind he’d targeted dropped to the ground and lay still. The remaining deer milled in confusion: they knew something had happened, but denied the clue of scent, were unsure in which direction to run. The deer Calum had asked Colin to shoot stood looking around, confused but clearly unhurt,

‘Shit… so you missed her Colin—you missed her.’ Calum was sighting on the animal, determined that they’d go home with two hinds when Colin checked him.

‘Fuck off Calum… I got her… look.’ Further to their left they watched as a second animal tumbled down the stream bank and lay motionless.

‘Bloody hell Colin; I said the one at the back of the group.’

‘It was at the back of the group; but I think eh… maybe a different group.’

Calum laughed. ‘Well you got one anyway—good shooting.’

Colin moved and was starting to get up but Calum touched his arm. ‘Give them a bit. They’re confused but not spooked. Best not to let them see us.’ After few moments the lead hind took a final look round, had a sniff at the fallen deer and slowly trotted up the hill back into the shelter of the trees followed by the rest of the herd.

The three men rose stiffly to their feet and dusted the snow from their clothing. Calum clapped Colin on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go for a wee look, eh? See what you shot.’

They’d been lying beside a small burn the steep side of which was thick with drifted snow and they all sank to their thighs as they struggled towards Colin’s deer. Calum laughed when he saw it. ‘You silly bugger—it’s a young stag: it’s even got wee stubby horns on him.’ He cuffed Colin playfully.

Colin looked shamefaced. ‘I wasn’t sure. I tried to say something but you just started barking like a dog and told me to shoot… which I did.’

‘Not to worry; but it can’t go the butcher. It’s illegal to shoot stags out of season. Robbie wanted one for the pot anyway and this’ll do fine. And it wasn’t a dog—that was the alarm call of a fox.’

The third member of the group was young Willie Macpherson, trainee assistant stalker to Calum, head stalker of the Dunmorey Estate. Willie pulled his knife from his back pocket, unclasped it and waved it at Calum who smiled and nodded. Willie bent and expertly bled the deer then clambered up the bank of the burn to bleed the other animal. When he returned a few minutes later he found his companions sitting on a large snow-free rock by the burn. Sheltered from the cold wind by the steep bank they were content to watch as Willie gralloched the beast.

Calum pulled a hip flask from his jacket pocket and waved it at Willie. ‘Better finish the other one quick before this is all gone.’

Willie waved a blood stained hand at Calum, jumped over the steaming pile of guts and hurried back up the bank.

Calum took a swig of whisky and handed the flask to Colin who, as a vet, had been having a professional poke at the entrails.

‘Glen Grant Colin: ice cold Glen Grant. Always tastes good, but tastes even better on the hill, eh?’ Colin took a large swig, smiled and nodded in agreement as Willie re-joined them; Colin placed the hip flask in his outstretched hand.

Calum retrieved the flask as Willie pulled a short length of rope from his pocket. He opened the mouth of the deer, looped one end of the rope over the lower jaw behind the incisor teeth and tied the other to his crook He pulled the stag and it slipped easily along the hard packed snow. He grinned at the pair still seated on the rock. ‘Are you guys comin’ then or will A see ye in the glen?’

Calum and Colin got to their feet. They grinned at each other—both were feeling the effects of the whisky. Calum put his arm over Colin’s shoulder. ‘Good shot… but a poor wee staggie.’ He was laughing to himself as he scrambled up to his hind with Colin making his way a little unsteadily behind him.

Calum roped up the deer and was preparing to pull when he paused to watch Willie. He was moving effortlessly down the hill, stag in tow and was approaching a steep incline. Calum pointed. ‘Just watch this. He should slide the stag down in front of him when he gets to the edge.’ Willie didn’t; as he pulled the carcass onto the steeper slope the deer, which weighed over fifty kilos, accelerated on the icy surface and took the legs from under Willie. Deer and boy tumbled down the slope together, with Willie underneath the stag as both slid to a stop at the bottom.

Both men were still laughing as they arrived on the scene. Willie had struggled out from under the animal but was still sitting spitting out snow. He was grinning and was about to get up when he spotted something sticking up from the snow on the opposite bank of the burn.

He pointed.’What’s that, dae ye think?’

Calum and Colin looked but could see nothing out of the ordinary.

Willie stood up. ‘There, near that big boulder on the bank… come on, A’ll show ye.’

The deer were left in the snow while the three headed to the burn. The steep banks were gone, and they jumped over the trickle of unfrozen water. Willie pointed again. ‘There… dae ye see it now?’ About twenty yards below them something was indeed protruding from the snow. As they got closer the object took form: it was the head of an ice axe.

Willie ran ahead, was about to grab the axe when Calum stopped him; he’d seen something else: it was the sole of a boot. He knelt and pulled at the exposed rubber: it was immovable. He was smiling as he scraped away some frozen snow to expose the whole boot and tugged again with no better results. His smile dropped as he stood up and stepped back. ‘The boot—it’s got a leg attached!’

Colin then knelt and continued the scraping. ‘Bloody hell Calum—another boot, a wee one… and it’s got a leg too.’

The three stood in silence for a few moments as they absorbed the significance of what they’d found. There was a shout from the glen: it was Lachie Donaldson the ghillie. He’d heard the shots and had brought Myrtle the hill pony along the path and was almost below them. Calum called him to leave the horse and to come on up.

When Lachie arrived Calum indicated what they’d found. Lachie knelt for a closer look, scratched at some more snow then slowly stood up. ‘They were havin’ it off and someone’s stuck that fuckin’ thing through the baith o’ them.’ He looked in horror at Calum.

‘Aye Lachie. That’s what we think too.’ Calum smiled. ‘But as a shagging expert we thought we’d best consult you for an opinion.’

Lachie laughed, stuck his hands in his pockets and shivered. ‘It’s gettin’ colder… and look at that.’ He pointed to the north where laden grey clouds were gathering. ‘It’s goin’ tae snow again A think. Bugger all we can dae here; ye no’ think we should load up an’ get hame?’

Calum nodded. ‘I’m wanting Willie to run on ahead to notify the police.’ He patted the lad on the shoulder. ‘Get back quick as you can. Find my dad and get him to call the police… to call Mr Anderson.’

As Willie trotted off down the hill the first large fluffy snowflakes were falling.

It was a long walk home and it was over two hours later and nearly dark before the party arrived back at the Lodge to find a large reception committee. It seemed that the whole estate had gathered. To the fore were Detective Superintendent Jock Anderson and Detective Chief Inspector Bob McLean of Inverness CID, both old friends of Calum’s and well known to Colin.

Jock Anderson smiled at the two. ‘An interesting day on the hill then? Come on inside and tell us about it.’

Seated at the large refectory table in Dunmorey Lodge’s warm kitchen with cups of tea in front of them, Calum and Colin recounted their story.

When they’d finished, Jock sat back in his chair. ‘And you didn’t disturb anything?’

Calum shook his head. ‘Other than exposing a wee bit of a couple of legs.’ He turned and looked out of the window… it was snowing again. ‘They’ll be well covered up again by now.’

Jock nodded. ‘And you’re sure it’s a male and a female?’

Calum nodded again. ‘One boot’s a size ten at least, and I’d say the other’s a size five or six… looks like a woman’s wee boot with red coloured laces.’

Jock got up and looked out the window. ‘Aye, it’s still coming down.’ He turned to Calum. ‘Will we be able to get up there tomorrow?’

Calum shrugged. ‘If the snow stops. There’s already a couple of inches of new stuff on top. Much more and we won’t be able to see the track so we’d not be able to get vehicles up. The track’s really just a pony path. We’ve upgraded a lot of it, and in the summer we can get a good bit of the way there with the Land Rover nae bother; but in these conditions… ? And if it doesn’t let up it would be a bit of a hike through the snow if you wanted to walk.’

As Jock sat back down there was a knock on the kitchen door and a tall, blonde, well-built young man, Robert Ogilvie, the Ninth Duke of Dunmorey came in. ‘You lot ready for any refreshments?’

Jock turned. ‘Well timed Robbie… a wee dram would go down just fine.’

Chapter 2

J ock Anderson’s team was the first to arrive at Dunmorey the next morning; it was barely first light. Jock was leaning on the bonnet of his police Land Rover and beside him were DCI McLean and his leg-man, his son-in-law, Detective Constable Jamie Ross. Jock turned as they were joined by the bearded figure of Jock’s old friend Duncan, Wee Dunkie Munro. Dunkie was Calum’s father, and the retired Dunmorey head stalker.

‘Will we get up there then Dunkie? What do you think?’

‘Och nae bother Jock. The snow didnae come tae much last night. Aye, nae bother… maist o’ the way onyway.’

They were joined by Robbie Ogilvie who was armed with a large flask and a load of plastic mugs. He was pouring coffee for everyone as a second Land Rover pulled into the yard: it was Sergeant Dave Gibson of Forensics with his Scene of Crime team. The sergeant climbed out and was wrapping his scarf tighter round his neck as he joined the others.

Robbie handed him a coffee. ‘Cold enough for you Dave?’

In reply the sergeant smiled and pulled his woolly hat further down over his ears.

Dunkie stamped his feet with the cold. ‘Bloody freezin’ Jock. Can we no’ get goin’? When’s yon doctor arrivin’?’

Jock pointed. Two sets of headlights: two vehicles were approaching along the lochan side. ‘That’ll be him now. I said nine; it’s ten before. Doctor Paterson’s never late.’

A saloon followed by a white van, the doctor’s meat wagon parked behind Dave Gibson’s vehicle. Dr Alex Paterson, the police surgeon, got out of the car, crunched through the ankle deep snow and joined the group. He grinned around the assembled men and rubbed his hands in excited anticipation, not from the cold. ‘Seems you’ve got a nice one for me Jock; are we going to stand around here all day?’

Jock was smiling as he called the vehicle drivers together. He pointed up the glen where the early morning sun had just risen above the ridge forming the eastern side of the glen; it was bathing the snow-clad east-facing slopes with a brilliant early morning light. Jock stood speechless for a few moments as he took in the incredible beauty of the scene. ‘Consider yourselves lucky lads—you could be struggling through morning traffic now—instead you’re taking a wee trip up into paradise… but it might be a wee bit hairy; there’s an awful lot of snow about. Dunkie here says we should be able to make it OK, at least most of the way anyway where the track’s been upgraded to take a vehicle. The last wee bit? Well, we’ll just have to see. It’s about a two hour walk to where we’re going, and I expect we won’t be travelling much above walking pace. Calum over there will be leading in the estate Land Rover; I’ll be next followed by Sergeant Gibson, then Doctor Paterson and his team.’ Jock turned to the doctor. ‘Alex, Can you get your lads to off-load your stuff into that Land Rover.’

Robbie Ogilvie called. ‘And what about me?’

Jock looked at him in surprise. ‘You coming too? In your Range Rover?’

‘Too bloody right I am. Carol’s been up since six making tea and coffee and food for you lot. I’m all loaded up.’

Jock grinned. ‘Well in that case; you can come behind to round up any stragglers.’

‘And did ye manage tae find space for a wee dram or two?’

Robbie grinned at Dunkie and nodded.

Jock turned as he made to climb into his Land Rover. ‘OK. Mount up. Just take it easy. All the vehicles have got winches and tow ropes if we need them… but no playing silly buggers. You probably all think you’re shit-hot off-road drivers. Let’s see if you are, eh? Stay in convoy, and keep in the front vehicle’s tracks… OK? The forecast’s good.’ He took a deep breath and looked up the glen, at the clear blue sky and the snow-clad landscape. ‘It’s going to be a glorious day. But we’ve got a lot to do so let’s get going.’

A few last cigarettes were stamped out as the men climbed into their vehicles.

With Calum at the wheel, and with young Willie Macpherson and Jamie Ross as passengers, the first Land Rover moved off followed by the others.

As predicted, the first part of the journey presented few problems and progress was surprisingly fast. At the snow-covered bridges, where the burns were full of drifted snow, Willie had to dismount and mark the bridge for Calum, but all the vehicles negotiated the track without difficulty though the drifted snow was several feet deep in places.

Jock, as driver of the second vehicle, was grateful to Calum for blazing the trail. He was an experienced off-road driver, but very deep snow on a strange track he found a bit intimidating. After only three quarters of an hour’s drive Calum stopped his vehicle, climbed out and walked back to find Jock who opened his window and grinned at him. ‘That was easy-peasy Calum… so what were we worried about?’

Dunkie answered from the back seat. ‘The next bit Jock… the next bit. We’ve run out of road man. Pony path only from here on.’

Dunkie got out and joined Calum. They walked up the road past Calum’s Land Rover where they stood for a moment in discussion. Both men then walked over and tested the snow on the flats below. Most of the travellers in the following vehicles also got out to stretch their legs, relieve themselves or have a quick smoke.

Jock climbed down and gazed with awe about him. The silence was deafening and, in deference, the men behind him seemed to be talking in whispers as they looked around the amazing panorama. The sun was now fully up, the sky clear… it was breathtakingly beautiful.

Jock could see that they were approaching the head of Dunmorey Glen. They were at a watershed. To his right a river flowed south down the glen, while a second small river emanating from a hanging valley flowed into another, wider, glen heading west.

Dunkie and Calum returned and Jock was a little worried by the devilish grin on Dunkie’s face. ‘Well Jock, we’ve decided. The pony track’s out. We canny get ony further by road: there is none. We’re goin’ tae tak ye by river. Ower there, goin’ doon the glen: that’s Glen Strathdarrach. It’s a gravelly big burn, no’ many big rocks. We’re thinkin’ we’ll manage that fine. Bugger all water in it an’ what’s there’ll be maistly frozen. What de ye think?’

Jock shrugged. ‘You lads are the guides Dunkie; we’ll do what we’re told.’

Dunkie stuck his pipe in his mouth and spent a few moments getting it going. ‘We’ll head straight doon frae here ower the flats. It’s normally right boggy there, but it’ll be fine and hard the now. We dinnae ken how deep the snow is. The sun’s just started tae hit it, so if we’re lucky the frozen crust will hold us. But A want awbuddy tae let air oot o’ their tyres—tae spread the load. We’ll manage it fine… but comin’ back’ll maybe a different story when the snow softens up.’ He laughed. ‘All this fir a pair o’ stiffs who couldae gie a bugger, eh? Calum, will ye go an’ get that lot tae sort out their tyres. An’ tell the drivers no’ tae hang about; tae go fir it—an’ no’ tae stop until they get tae the burn. Four wheel drive low ratio till ye get off the road, then intae high ratio when ye get ontae the flats—an’ tae mak their ain tracks—they’re no tae follow the man in front’s.’

Ten minutes later Jock was watching as Calum turned off the track. The Land Rover sunk to the axles in the drifted snow by the road and seemed to be floundering, but slowly pulled itself out. Calum paused momentarily on the new hard packed surface as he shifted gear, then raced across a few hundred yards of flat over what he hoped was hard pack. Jock grinned as Calum slowed by the burn and carefully drove onto the streambed, got out and waved him on. Jock turned to Dunkie as he engaged gear. ‘Here we go then.’

Jock’s experience was that of Calum’s. The heavy vehicle initially sunk to the axles, but somehow found sufficient traction to very slowly pull itself out. A quick run over the snow and he was parked behind Calum awaiting the next Land Rover. All the vehicles made it, but all suffered the same breath-holding start… except Robbie’s Range Rover which floated effortlessly through.

Dunkie called all the drivers together. ‘We dinnae hae much farther tae go. It should be easy enough, an’ A think it’ll be better fir ye tae follow ahent like before; follow the man in front’s tracks. Let Calum find the big rocks an’ holes fir ye.’

For Jock the riverbed felt no rougher than a rutted farm track. They were thrown about a bit when they hit an occasional large rock, but it wasn’t the challenging experience he’d anticipated.

Bob McLean commented to Dunkie that the stalkers had to walk an awful long way to shoot a deer.

Dunkie laughed but agreed. ‘This is the first year we’ve taken hinds this far oot. See them trees tae yer left on the hillside. They’re a’ new—well no’ exactly new: they’re aboot thirty years old. Ye canny see many frae here, but in amongst are the old Caledonian pines. It was one o’ the auld duke’s projects: tae save the pines frae extinction. About four hundred years ago maist o’ Scotland wis covered in woodland. Did ye ken that?’

Bob shook his head.

‘Well A’m tellin ye it wis. Pine, birch, rowan, aspen an’ willow maistly. A combination o’ overgrazin’ and fellin’ cleared oot maist o’ it. Just a few wee pockets left. Ye’ve been tae Glen Affric?’

Bob nodded.

‘Well that’s a remnant o’ the old pine forest… some lovely trees there, an’ they’re workin’ on regeneratin’ that lot too.’

The passengers were being bounced about quite uncomfortably. Dunkie tapped Jock on the shoulder. ‘Can ye no’ be finding the flat bits? Ma kidneys are gettin’ a right massagin’ on this lot.’

Jock was about to make an appropriate reply when the Land Rover bucked violently and there was a grating crunch as it resumed the horizontal. Dunkie laughed as he tightened up his seat belt. ‘Ye’re bein’ right careless wi’ police property Jock… right careless.

‘Aye Bob. As A wis sayin’ afore Jock just aboot turned us ower, A think there were aboot twenty auld trees left up there: lovely trees. Young trees’ll no’ tak heavy grazin’. Once the tops are up above browse height they’ll be fine, but they need tae be protected till then. The deer will maybe do a bit o’ bark strippin’ on bigger trees if they’re right hungry, but that disnae usually kill the tree—foresters dinnae like it though, so they keep their big plantations fenced off. It’s the tips o’ the wee trees that are right tasty. If it’s just the tip that’s eaten an’ it gets a chance it’ll come again, but if the trees keep gettin’ chomped an’ chomped they’ll live maybe but end up as runty-stunty wee things—just bushes really. The wee ones: the newly regenerated wee things dinnae stand much o’ a chance. Aye, overgrazin’ ruins a hill. Goats were the worst.’

Bob looked at him in surprise.

‘Aye, A’m tellin’ ye… goats. Did ye ken that in the seventeen hundreds Scotland’s biggest export wis goat skins? We didnae export much, mind, so there wisnae much competition for the prize. Goats: millions o’ the buggers chompin’ up the highlands. Aye, they’re buggers. A deer or a sheep’ll graze stuff doon… tae the wood often enough but they’ll no kill the plants; an’ they’re selective: they ken what they like tae eat. But goats… goats’ll eat onything. But worse than that, Bob—they pull plants up by the roots; they eat the lot… plant gone… no regrowth. Awful bloody things. Ecological arseholes A call them.’

This was all news to Bob, a city boy from Edinburgh. He seemed quite bemused. ‘And there’s me quite liking goats.’

Dunkie huffed. ‘Well ye’re welcome tae them. They’re no’ a’ gone though. A saw a big billy in Dunmorey woods just last week. A big bugger wi’ great big long whiskers on him. Lovely animal wi’ great big horns. A stinkin’ thing… smelt him afore A saw him.’

Bob asked if he’d taken a shot at him.

‘Nah, Bob. Even if A’d had ma rifle A widnae hae shot him. A dinnae ever shoot onythin’ fir the sake o’ it. A few goats’ll no’ dae ony harm. Adds tae the biodiversity—the old duke loved his biodiversity.’

Dunkie pointed up the hill. ‘See there… that big pine stickin’ up above the other trees… that’s one: a Caledonian pine. The duke was determined tae save the remnant forest. He could just hae built a few wee fences tae allow regeneration, but no, he went the whole hog. He fenced off a few o’ acres, then he planted the whole hill wi’ a load o’ pine we’d grown in the nursery, usin’ seeds frae they lads up there, an’ a load o’ native trees… as a telt ye: birch an’ rowan an’ aspen an’ some oaks. He planted a few European larch among them fir a bit o’ colour an’ fir the timber: it’s good wood larch, right useful aroond the place. Nice woods, eh? Maist o’ the trees hiv done really well… and there’s loads o’ natural regeneration o’ the pines. An’ the wee runty-stunty ones A wis talkin’ aboot: they just shot up when they stopped gettin’ chomped.’

Dunkie offered Jock some advice about his driving as he was thrown about again. Jock smiled and wiggled a finger at him.

Dunkie grunted and continued talking to Bob. ‘An’ ye were wonderin’ why we come oot this far tae get a beast? Well last summer we took doon the deer fence round the plantation, so this is the deers’ first winterin’ in the woods. Deer need shelter Bob. Like any animals they hate the cold and the wet—but when ye get cold winds on top, that’s the real killer. They get great shelter in the woods—an’ grazin’. The duke left big clearings unplanted fir grazin’; there’s no’ very much grows under the trees… but they can browse them. So we wondered how the deer were gettin’ on in the wee paradise we’d made fir them… an’ they seem tae be daein’ just grand. They’re big an’ fat an’ healthy an’ we want tae tak a load o’ them oot this year.’

Bob looked out the window. He could see some deer on the hillside below the trees. ‘Are they all hinds?’

Dunkie looked and nodded. ‘Except during the rut, when the stags do the business, the hinds an’ stags are in separate herds.’

‘But Dunkie; I was hearing about Colin’s wee screw-up; didn’t he shoot a stag? It was with the hinds wasn’t it?’

‘Aye, it wis. The stag calf’ll stay with its mother and the other hinds till it’s about two year old then it’ll join the stag herd.’

‘But you’re only shooting hinds just now?’

‘Aye. The stag season’s from first o’ July tae the twentieth o’ October. Then it’s hind season tae the fifteenth o’ February. We usually like tae get our quota early… we’re given a quota each year: how many tae shoot. We like tae tak them oot early—afore they lose condition. But this year the weather’s been so bloody awful we’ve hardly been on the hill. An’ of course ye dinnae tak just any old hind… just yeld hinds.’

Bob was clearly confused.

‘Aye, yeld hinds: hinds without a calf at foot… they’re usually pregnant, but they’re in the best condition. A milkin’ hind has a real tough time o’ it. She’s feedin’ a calf and trying usually tae gestate a foetus… and somehow feed hersel’. They’re often pair lookin’ creatures come the spring.’

Bob said it seemed a bit daft to shoot a yeld: a pregnant animal.

Dunkie nodded. ‘A shame right enough, but if ye shoot a milkin’ hind her calf’ll die o’ starvation which is no’ very nice either, eh? But look, A think we’re nearly there.’

Calum had drawn to a halt where a tributary stream joined the river. As he climbed out he was pointing. A group of hinds which had been scraping at the snow to find the vegetation beneath were trotting over the flats towards the woodland. He walked to Jock’s vehicle. ‘This is the stream; the bodies are on the bank just below where the stream comes out of the trees. I’m just going to test the snow.’

Jock got out, followed Calum out of the riverbed and walked with him onto the flats. Calum kicked at the snow. ‘Still frozen; we’re not sinking in at all; the vehicles will make it no bother.’ He walked to where a deer had broken the surface to get at the vegetation beneath. ‘See here; the snow’s less than a foot thick. Even if it softens up later we’ll get back OK… the ground’s frozen solid.’

All the vehicles pulled themselves easily out of the riverbed, crossed the flats and parked on what was the pony path. Jock shouted that they’d arrived and the men piled out.

The last bit they had to walk. Calum led the way up the hill. It was only about two or three hundred feet, but it was steep and most of the men, some of whom were carrying heavy equipment, were panting heavily when they arrived.

With or without the marker, Calum would have found the place easily: but the head of the ice axe still protruded from the snow. He turned and grinned at the policemen and Dr Paterson. ‘They’re all yours… need a wee hand with a shovel?’

An hour later, all of the snow over and around the bodies had been carefully cleared. While the process had been gradual and the whole picture slowly presented, the final tableau was shocking.

Lachie’s theory was correct. The couple had clearly been having sex when they were spitted with the ice axe. The girl’s right leg was naked, her boot had been removed and one leg pulled from her trousers. The man’s trousers were round his thighs, his naked buttocks exposed.

The doctor announced that the man would have died almost instantly… the pointed tip of the shaft had passed through his heart.

But the girl: she had only been pinned to the ground through her shoulder. Her hands were held in the air, fingers stiff—claw-like, her long nails had gouged flesh from the face and neck of her lover and her expression was frozen in contorted, tortured grimace.

Dr Paterson, standing beside Jock, was shaking his head sadly. ‘I’ve seen some awful things Jock… awful things, but I think this beats them all. If the girl had been killed with the axe it would have been bad enough, but to do that… and leave her to die. What kind of human being could do that, eh? What kind of sick person?’

The bodies were fully intact, and apart from some skin discolouration and a little dehydration they were as they had died.

Jock turned to the doctor. ‘No sense asking about time of death, eh Doc?’

Dr Paterson nodded. ‘Aye; what month would be difficult enough. They were deep frozen—quick frozen soon after death and covered by the snow. They’ve been in a freezer ever since.’

Dunkie had been listening to the conversation. ‘Maybe Calum can help ye wi’ the month. He’s comin’ now, ye can ask him.’

Calum and Willie were making their way up the hill carrying a stretcher each. Behind them was Jamie Ross; in his arms were two body bags. When Calum arrived and had laid the stretcher on the ground, Jock called him over.

He smiled when the doctor repeated what his father had said. ‘November: first week.’ Before the doctor could respond, Calum continued. ‘I keep a diary: not a dear diary . . . a joural, just a record of everything about the estate. First flowers of spring, which, when and where, the first swallow to arrive—that sort of thing. And the weather: temperature, rainfall, first frost, first snows. I checked my diary last night. The first time snow came down this far last year was the first week in November—and it’s never gone from here since. Melted a bit off the flats a couple of times but it’s never gone from here.’

Dr Paterson was open-mouthed. ‘Bloody hell Calum. Are you sure?’

Calum smiled and nodded.

Dunkie clapped Calum on the back. ‘Whit did A tell ye, eh? They must hae been covered right quick Alex. If they’d been lyin’ in the open any time at all they’d hae been a bit chomped. The hoodie crows dinnae hang around; their eyes would hae been oot sharpish—crows love the eyes. An’ hungry foxes: there are a lot o’ them in the woods. An’ eagles are no’ slow tae find a bit o’ juicy carrion. Nah… covered up an’ frozen right quick they were.’

Sergeant Gibson came over and joined them. His men were busy round the bodies; he was shaking his head. ‘Bugger-all I’m afraid. Nothing found and nothing to find I suspect… except the girl’s missing boot. There’s a lot of snow to search under. Is it worth it?’

Jock shook his head. ‘Boot flicked off in the heat of the moment? It could be yards away. But it’s strange, is it not? No packs; no equipment? It would be a right daft person to be hill-walking in November without some gear, eh?’

The sergeant looked around. ‘Could be buried anywhere sir. A surge of passion maybe; packs thrown off… a dash to a nice comfy wee patch of soft grass to have it off? We’ll come back up