When Distilled From Rage

Prologue

Prologue

July 26th, 2005

‘You think we can find him?’ Daniel McIntyre had a youthful gleam in his eyes, but his broad shoulders made him look much older than eighteen.

Callan Cameron set the newspaper on the rock and raised an eyebrow at Daniel. ‘Neither of us is a detective.’

They sat in the woods by the Senior Citizen Care Centre, a few minutes’ walk from the school. They’d graduated that summer, but their friend Blaine Macgregor still took a piano class there.

Heather swayed around them, adding tranquillity to the afternoon. The newspaper shone under the sunlight. The headline read:

Aaron Ridge missing.

Reward of £5,000 for information about his whereabouts.

Callan’s mother had called the missing man ‘a drunk’. So had the shopkeeper who’d sold Callan a new canvas board that morning. And no one, not even the man’s friends, hoped to ever find him.

Blaine, short and bony, dropped his backpack next to Callan’s and plopped onto the grass beside Daniel. He’d grown a moustache, which clashed with the freckles on his boyish face. Blaine wiggled his fingers. ‘Ms Willoughby would rather my fingers fall off than play a single note off key. She’s worse than a drillmaster!’

‘Yet you wouldn’t give it up,’ Daniel said.

‘I love it.’ Blaine peered at the newspaper. ‘Do you eejits want to solve this?’

‘Five thousand pounds is a tidy sum of money, and they just want information about Mr Ridge.’ Daniel pointed at Callan. ‘Plus, your father’s a detective. You must have some detection skills.’

‘Buzz off, bampot! Your father can build houses and look at you, you can’t even hold a screwdriver.’

Blaine cracked up. ‘Callan’s right, you know.’

Daniel smacked Callan on the head. ‘Bastards! Who fixed the damn ladder when you snapped it sneaking into Pat’s room?’

Callan sobered up. ‘That was a fluke. But if my father finds out we’re snooping into his colleague’s case, he’ll have my hide and you know it.’ Callan checked his watch. The dial had a splatter of red paint he’d forgotten to clean. ‘It’s four forty-five. Do you want me to drop ye off, Blaine?’

Blaine snorted. ‘You’re such a show off.’

‘Aye.’ Daniel joined in. ‘Mr Cameron should never have got you that car.’

‘He didn’t get me a car!’ Callan harrumphed. His father had been delighted to hand Callan the keys to his ten-year-old truck. Callan could never sneak out at night; its engine rattled so loud, the noise would give him away. ‘He bought himself a new one.’

Blaine’s lips turned down. ‘Paw won’t let me drive.’

Callan jostled Blaine’s arm with his shoulder. ‘Hey, you’ve always got me. I’ll drive you to your first sold out show.’

Blaine laughed and jumped up. ‘A sold out show. That’s the dream.’

Daniel stood up. Callan followed suit and kicked a stray pebble. The thing had been pressing against his right ankle. He plucked his backpack. ‘Until that sold out show, I’ll get you two eejits home.’

‘Aren’t you meeting Pat tonight?’ Daniel asked.

Callan shrugged. He’d had a row with his girlfriend that afternoon and she’d stalked off to her best friend’s. Callan kept his tone light. ‘I have to get our esteemed piano prodigy home.’

Blaine smirked, lifting a side of his mouth. ‘I know I can always count on you, Callan.’

‘That you can, Blaine. That you can.’