When Red Mist Rises

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Finding your best friend was the hardest job ever. He knew Blaine lay six feet under, but where was the body?

Squish.

He doubled over as the mud sucked at his Wellingtons.

Autumn in Scotland meant rain, the least ideal weather for treading through the peatlands.

On a freezing, rainy morning, all Detective Inspector Callan Cameron wanted was to stay warm, snuggled next to his girlfriend. But the job came before comfort.

His watch indicated the tenth hour, yet the sky didn’t agree. Grey clouds hovered threateningly, blocking out all the sunlight.

Callan ducked to enter the tent and tuned into the crackle of the radio.

This vast peatland hadn’t seen another soul for decades and now scrub-wearing officials littered the virgin land. Police constables from the other town, a team of forensic anthropologists and pathologists, and Callan all huddled under the tent. A few poor police constables stood guard outside, dripping from head to toe, teeth almost chattering, as they flanked the white-and-blue police tape.

‘Dr Brown.’

The scrub-wearing pathologist turned to him, her face grim. He’d known her for years but had never called her anything but ‘doctor’. The new Callan let people in.

She crooked a finger. ‘Detective, follow me.’

Callan huffed. Guess he was in for a shower too. He bundled into the scrubs and set off behind the doctor.

Goosebumps-inducing drops of rain smacked against his numb face.

His heart contracted.

How could he be so desperate to find Blaine’s body yet not want to find him?

Aileen Mackinnon had suggested that finding Blaine would put a lid on the past. It would make Callan acknowledge the end of hope he’d held on to for fifteen years.

Dr Brown entered a barricaded area where brownish-red mud lay in a heap, along with bright yellow markers cautioning them to tread steadily. The smell of fresh earth entrapped them.

Callan drew in his wet lip and sucked on it like an ice lolly. He took a moment, bracing himself for what lay in that ditch.

His best friend.

Dressed in all black, his soot-coloured hair in a military cut, Callan fit in with the roiling clouds. A lone figure amongst the flashing red and blue lights.

Callan squished his way beside the doctor and crouched.

She carefully folded back the sheet covering the ditch. ‘The bloody rain’s slowing us down. We need to remove him now. It would damage the body otherwise.’

Callan grunted, unable to form words, craning his neck to see the corpse.

Fifteen years it might’ve been, but the peat never let anything rot away. Blaine Macgregor would look the same, all these years later, like Sleeping Beauty – unaged.

Fists clenched until his knuckles turned white, jaw clamped so hard he worried his teeth might splinter, Callan dared a peek.

A body lay, clothes covered in granules of mud. Baggy jeans and a red sweatshirt contrasted with the grey light. Curls of short strawberry-blond hair tickled his forehead. And the face…

Cold tingles zinged through Callan. The rain, coupled with the breeze, had nothing to do with it.

This couldn’t be.

‘That’s… that’s not Blaine, Dr Brown.’

Dr Brown swivelled towards Callan. She’d narrowed her bottle-green eyes, and the faint wrinkles beside them stretched into tight lines. ‘I thought as much. Those baggy jeans are typical 1980s. My mum loved those.’

Callan ran a hand through his hair, displacing a few raindrops.

Oh crap! If this wasn’t Blaine, they had a new body on their hands.

‘Do we ken who it is?’

Dr Brown sighed. ‘I called you as soon as we cleared out the peat. I got some preliminary pictures before you arrived, but I’ll need time to examine him to give you any information.’

This man needed to be in the system already for his fingerprints to tell them anything.

The temperature dropped a notch, making Callan want to draw his arms in.

Not Blaine. He still hadn’t found Blaine.

Who was this man?

Callan did a quick calculation. ‘How long do ye think he’s been here?’

‘Judging by his clothes, he’s from the late seventies or eighties – unless he liked vintage styles.’

Callan raised his blue-grey eyes to the landscape around them. ‘And no sign of Blaine Macgregor?’

Dr Brown pursed her lips. ‘Sorry.’

‘Maybe we need to get the metal detectors out again.’

Nodding, the doctor replaced the sheet over the ditch. ‘I’ll try to get the results to you as soon as I can.’

Callan dug his toes into the ground and stood up. ‘Could ye email us a picture of the body? I’ll cross-check it with older missing-person cases.’

A nod was all he received as the doctor got to work on removing the man from his burial place.

Callan walked out of the tent, scrub-free, and into the thrashing rain, letting it wash over him. He needed to contact his boss. After all, they had a new case to investigate.

Huddled in the warm aroma of coffee, dry in his fresh pair of all-black clothes, Callan ran his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Rory Macdonald, through what had transpired at the peatland.

‘Goodness, Callan, another bog body?’

Callan sipped at the bitter sludge in his cup, savouring the burn on his tongue. The warmth sent his frozen fingers and lips tingling. ‘What did the peatland look like thirty to forty years ago?’

Rory stared into his own mug. ‘Ye would’ve been a wee thing then. No one ventured in those cursed lands, especially on misty days. It’s easy to lose yer way or slip into a ditch.’

Callan contemplated what he’d seen, his photographic memory replaying the scene.

The scents and frigid water droplets came to life, igniting his skin with goosebumps.

The corpse in the ditch lay on his side, as if sleeping. His left hand lay limp, squashed under his body, the right carelessly resting on his torso, his denim-clad legs in a tangle.

He wouldn’t have gone to sleep if he’d fallen in that ditch, would he? He’d have tried to get out.

Callan leaned a hip on the reception desk of the silent police station. ‘I reckon he never tried to get out – couldn’t. If I wanted to jump to conclusions, I’d say he was dead before he got in.’

Rory sat his mug on the table with a thud. ‘Don’t leap before ye think. Has Dr Brown found any evidence to suggest it was murder? We don’t need to raise public alarm. People will question how many bodies the peatland has swallowed. Maybe they’ll think every missing person’s buried there. Let’s wait until the pathologist confirms there’s foul play involved.’

Callan nodded. It made sense. Until a few months ago, murder had never painted the Highlands of Loch Fuar in blood.

And now they’d had a few too many. Bloody hell!

Rory tugged at a tuft of his candy-floss-like white hair, and Callan noticed it was unusually ragged.

‘Don’t.’ He glared at Callan. ‘Suzie thought it would be good to give my hair a trim while I napped.’

With his grandchildren, this burly detective turned to mush, a doting grandfather. He’d let his grandchildren get away with murder for sure.

Rory had once come to the office with painted nails and glitter stuck to his collar, calling it his penance for fathering three children. Now he had another eagerly awaited grandwean on the way.

Callan couldn’t wrap his head around the entire circus. Why give birth to little devils?

‘I’ll dig into the missing person files from the 1970s and ’80s.’ He swivelled right when his stomach let out an audible roar.

Aye, he’d forgotten breakfast again.

Ever since that brief respite at the beginning of October, the last couple of weeks had been a grind. He’d barely seen Aileen, usually had to wrangle the two minutes to brush his teeth and the circles beneath his bleary eyes now matched the dark shade of his hair.

Rory chuckled. ‘Maybe snag some snacks at Isla’s.’

He’d eat sand at this point. The divine snacks at Isla’s Bakery would be akin to eating ambrosia.

And it would hopefully help him find the dead man sooner. A murdered man, his gut was sure.

Cold raindrops splattered her maroon coat, and she shivered when the wind kissed the exposed skin on her neck. A breeze from the underworld.

Everything sat in darkness, her vision tunnelled to focus on the only light flickering above a door.

A white hand reached for the doorknob. Her other ghoulish hand touched the wooden door, and it eased open. The groan sent a shudder through her, the light overhead heating her scalp.

Aileen set one trembling foot in the doorway. Her breath hitched at the strong stench of freshly polished wood and musk.

The air inside this place didn’t move, as if petrified by Medusa. Dust particles froze under the light beam and then – then something tightened a noose around her neck.

It tightened and tightened. Aileen gasped, fought, and flailed her arms.

Oxygen, Oxygen…

Someone forced her hands back and the grip on her throat squeezed until tears leaked out of her eyes.

Oxygen.

‘Ah!’ Aileen shot up, gasping. She’d worked herself into a frenzy again, her legs wrapped in the bed sheets.

Aileen’s hand caressed her throat, her parched throat.

Just a nightmare – like the one she had every night.

Doubling over, she pushed her head between her folded knees, her heart still slamming against her chest.

Her shirt stuck to her armpits, damp and stinky. She needed a shower.

Aileen peeked at the bedside clock.

‘Ten! Breakfa—’

No, she didn’t have to make breakfast for her guests.

Now her eyes dampened with hurtful tears. She didn’t have any guests and wouldn’t for the foreseeable future.

Aileen tugged the laptop which rested on the other side of the bed.

People who crunched numbers until the wee hours of the morning – especially when those numbers held no hope of salvaging a business without taking on a huge debt – slept in.

Aye, the smart accountant from the city had burned through the cash from her severance pay. She’d led with her heart and landed in a ditch.

Aileen gnawed on her lip, pushing the prickle in her throat down.

If Dachaigh failed, her gran’s hard-earned money and reputation would sink faster than the Titanic and it would be Aileen’s fault.

She should have known this, predicted it, and worked harder. Aileen covered her face. This meant the end of her adventurous dreams.

With such dismal business, Dachaigh would run out of money in three months. Then winter would descend with a vengeance. A season where most tourists would head for warmer countries.

She’d have to leave all this behind: the scenery, the freedom of being her own boss, her new friendships and Callan, her new boyfriend.

Failure. The great forensic accountant had finally landed on her face.

What would they say?

I told you so.

Aileen pushed herself out of bed. Even if she had no guests, she had an inn. At least she could keep it clean and then grab a chocolate eclair or two from Isla. Some chocolate eclairs and her worries would vanish.

At two in the afternoon, Aileen wound her way to Isla’s Bakery.

Her friend’s wild red hair stood out like a flame in the dreary woods through the glass windows. The rain beat down on Aileen’s back as she dashed into the bakery’s calorie-filled warmth.

Aileen braced for the rib-crushing hug Isla greeted her with every day. But to her astonishment, Isla remained behind the counter, dealing with the long line of customers who wanted the chicken-stuffed pastries she served after noon.

If only Aileen had a booming business like Isla’s.

She excused her way to the counter, shrugging off scowls and glares sent her way by the queuing crowd.

Where was Isla’s nephew? The teenaged Andrew helped out at the bakery. He worked from dawn till 9 a.m. and after he finished his classes for the day.

‘Hey, Isla, where’s Andrew?’ Aileen called out over the buzz of gossip.

Isla’s feet didn’t bounce as she worked, and dark circles ringed her eyes. Aileen had never seen her best friend this low on energy.

Thinking on her feet, Aileen grabbed an apron from the hook and jostled towards Isla. ‘How can I help?’

‘Man the till!’

And so they worked, falling into a surprisingly easy rhythm, the queue moving along quicker until it dwindled then fizzled out when the counters emptied.

Only then did Isla push her hair off her face and groaned. Aileen led her to a chair, wanting to put up her own feet. How did Isla manage this for eight hours?

Isla sank into the chair, shoulders drooping. ‘I’ve been on my feet since 5 a.m.’

Golly! Returning to the coffee machine, Aileen bit her lip as she contemplated which button to press. She finally settled on one and the machine screeched to life, spitting out a dark brew. The smell mingled with the sugary aroma of pastries, easing the tension from Aileen’s spasming muscles.

She placed the warm mug and the last remaining scone in front of Isla. ‘You need the energy.’

Without a word, Isla gobbled it up. Every silent bite mushroomed Aileen’s worry until it bloomed as big as an elephant.

‘Where’s Carly?’

‘With Daniel.’

‘How is she? Are her new teeth causing her trouble? How’s Daniel?’

‘Good.’

Aileen sighed. She placed a hand on Isla’s shoulder. ‘What is it, dearie? What’s wrong?’

Isla tugged at the tissue paper until it tore in two. ‘What’s with you and Callan asking these questions!’

Callan had come to the bakery? The sod hadn’t called her in four days. They hadn’t even communicated except for a few brief messages in the morning.

Aileen tempered down her worries about their relationship. ‘Tell me, Isla. I can see it in your face.’

Isla still didn’t look Aileen in the eye. ‘Nothing. I-I’m worried about Andrew. He didn’t show up today, and he isn’t answering my calls. Maybe he just let loose last night with his friends – he is still a teenager after all. Or maybe he worked late on that assignment he was complaining about.’

Skipping work because he partied the night before? Unlikely – he wasn’t the type.

Aileen squeezed Isla’s hand. ‘Why don’t you give me his address and I’ll check up on him? And perhaps you can pull some strings and get someone here to help you out? I’m sure many people from Loch Fuar would be happy to help.’

Isla nodded, yet didn’t move.

‘I’ll call Daniel and we’ll arrange it. Don’t work yourself ragged.’

Aileen made arrangements for the evening rush, asking Barbara, the owner of the tea room for help. They needed reinforcements when the last batch of the day hit the shelves at five, and Barbara happily stepped in.

After a long while, Aileen slid into the car, programmed Andrew’s address into her GPS and rolled out of the car park.

What was going on with Andrew Mackay? Why had he skipped out on work?