When Birds Fall Silent

Chapter 1-1

Chapter One

‘Oh shoot!’ Her body braced and muscles shuddered. Dripping with sweat, Aileen blinked at the man looming over her.

Detective Inspector Callan Cameron’s electric blues, with their special hint of grey, assessed her with an intensity enough to burn through paper. They clearly didn’t like what they saw. ‘Fifty times in as many minutes, Mackinnon! What’s wrong with ye?’

What’s wrong? Her stomach growled, ready to eat itself. Her clothes stuck to her like a second skin, making her body itch, and her breath raced faster than the speed of light. That’s what was wrong!

Aileen tried to turn onto her side. The mat underneath should’ve been comfortable, but after this torture, it was akin to a hard stone grinding into her aching arse.

Another moan slipped through her clenched lips. Her dark brown locks, now appearing pitch black thanks to all the sweat, had broken out of their militant ponytail.

Bloody detective! Now she had to deal with this haystack for the rest of their—

‘Up!’ The word lasered through her constant pants.

Aileen muttered a few curses between shallow gasps.

They didn’t sound as muted as she’d thought.

‘If ye’d channel some of yer frustration here, ye wouldn’t be on yer arse all the time.’

She continued to huff, a steam engine with no signs of stopping. Aileen’s legs quaked, so she pushed against the mat with shivering arms and landed on her rump. She’d be able to use her legs sometime tomorrow, she hoped. ‘Can we call it a day?’

Callan folded his arms, muscles bulging like taut balloons. Had they grown overnight? Unlikely.

There wasn’t a hint of perspiration on his scowling face. A soot-black mop and scruff jaw with the barest of prickly beards gave him an edgier, dangerous look – never mind those defined bones. ‘Ye can’t ask yer enemy for a timeout. For all ye ken, they’d finish ye off in two minutes, given yer less than average stamina.’

Aileen gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not going off to war. Help me!’

Still, the infernal man didn’t move. His sharp eyes scanned the barn, which was fitted with fitness tools, searching for more torture equipment.

She wouldn’t give him the chance. If she wanted to get back to Dachaigh using her own legs, she had to end this.

Aileen crouched on all fours and gripped Callan’s forearm, then used the last millilitre of fuel left to heft herself up.

The ground quaked, those torture-buffers – aka blue mats – providing some cushion for her legs. White light blinded her, beating onto her damp back. Was it suddenly hot in here?

Aileen’s throat pleaded mercy. A woman lost in the desert was better hydrated.

This had been a bad idea.

Callan had taken it upon himself to teach Aileen self-defence. For the four sessions they’d practised together, Aileen had found herself on her arse more than her feet.

The detective never promised to be a gentle person; he represented his features: all muscle and not an ounce of fat to spare. Add this to Coach Callan and diamonds could be more yielding – he showed as much mercy as Henry VIII to an adulterous Anne Boleyn.

She didn’t want to listen to his instructions. Her pumping blood and ceaseless pants obstructed her hearing, Aileen only hoped to get out of there in one piece.

Callan muttered a jab. ‘If ye don’t do as I tell ye, this is useless!’

Aileen peeked up at him, her petite height nowhere near his six feet plus. Damn him! Her tiny frame meant he often picked her up and dropped her on the mats, as if she were a twig. It frustrated her, to say the least. How do you hurt a boulder?

He cares enough to want to protect you.

‘I don’t have the time to follow your ridiculous exercise regime.’ She spewed a few more curses. His fitness mindset hadn’t rubbed off on her, although his affinity to curse had.

It caused him to scowl harder. ‘I ken what ye’re trying to do. Ye can’t distract me. Move! Fifty push-ups followed by fifty squats.’

‘I’d be dead on the floor!’

His lips twitched as he waved her off. ‘Get moving!’

Was he trying to hold a smirk? She could manage some kickboxing, especially with him as her target.

Crossing her arms across her chest, she pursed her lips. ‘Not doing it.’

Callan tipped his chin, as if contemplating her argument. ‘I won’t let ye solve cases with me if ye don’t.’

Hell, he drove a hard bargain. No more sleuthing?

‘Five squats and two push-ups.’

‘Twenty and ten. I’ll let ye have an extra piece of the chocolate-hazelnut tart.’

A fool would refuse it. She might learn to walk without her legs. Or a generous serving of chocolate with hazelnut might resurrect her.

An agonising eternity later, Aileen slipped on her normal shoes. They trained twice every week at a barn belonging to Old Brun, someone from Callan’s past. She hadn’t met the man, nor did she know anything about him.

She stared at her blotchy face in the mirror. She’d been able to calm her racing heart after a freezing bath. Callan said it would soothe her sore muscles; Aileen wondered if they’d divorce her for all the torture she’d put them through.

Most people had a palpitating heart and red face from other activities on a date.

Was this supposed to be a date? Or had he brought her here to appease her gran?

Siobhan had negotiated with Callan months ago: answers in exchange for a date with her grandwean.

Aileen shook her head. This was Callan’s idea of taking her on a date – he’d said so. It suited him. They weren’t much for sitting around discussing movies or the weather. They hashed out murder investigations. Neither of them pretended to be normal.

It still plagued her, what a man like him saw in her. His loyalty and respect for his badge would make any sane female swoon. Then came the icing on the cake: muscles paired with a grumpy, chiselled face crafted to perfection, and topped with military-cut black hair. The epitome of swoon-worthy.

And her? A recovering overworked accountant who, at twenty-eight, wanted adventure to spice up her life. She’d achieved her goal after coming to Loch Fuar a few months ago. Despite being more adventurous than when she’d arrived, Aileen couldn’t fathom how Callan thought she resembled her grandmother: witty and mischievous.

Siobhan was famous in Loch Fuar for her boisterous yet loving nature. Callan sure adored her, despite the constant banter between the two of them. And Aileen suspected she terrified Callan a wee bit.

Aileen’s stomach growled as she stepped out of the locker room.

A hungry, wannabe adventurous woman…

She turned to where Callan leaned against the wall, massaging his right knee.

Licking her lips, she dared. If they were dating, he’d tell her about it, wouldn’t he? ‘Is your knee hurting again?’

Callan jumped like someone had caught him nicking a cookie. He cleared his throat. ‘Hungry? I’m starving.’

The hope in her chest deflated. Callan didn’t trust her enough to share his ghosts. But then she hadn’t told him everything either, had she?

Callan hummed the tune of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Autumn was his favourite part of the piece, music for battered ears, although the sweet melody of Aileen’s profanities had soothed him. He grinned, jogging over to the blue door of Loch Fuar’s tiny Police Scotland office.

In the north-western part of Scotland, summer rarely blazed to burn skin, although it did thaw their frozen blood.

He schooled his expression. Nobody in Loch Fuar was privy to their dates, and Callan wanted to keep it so. This small town had too many uncontrollable, wagging tongues, which all too often gave rise to scorching forest fires.

The days he’d scheduled to spend time with Aileen, he’d fought his smile more and cursed less, worry lines fading from his forehead. He couldn’t let it show, though. They’d made the wise decision to keep this secret from the meddlesome Loch Fuar citizens. It was bad enough that most of them thought he and Aileen were the perfect pair and never attempted to censor their matchmaking attempts.

The office sat silent, unlike most police stations. What else would it be like in the Town of Saints?

Officer Robert Davis patrolled the most touristy destination: the loch, their town’s namesake. Or should it be the other way around?

Callan didn’t care.

It was the perfect summer afternoon, which in Scotland meant sun with no rain. No wonder tourists flocked to the loch by the hundreds. You’d be daft to miss the weather. Sunny, freshly pressed lemonade days were rare in Scotland.

Callan shuffled towards the coffee machine. It trumped lemonade any day, especially after a long, energetic lunch.

The sound of the coffee squeezing into the carafe filled the air, along with its heady aroma. A barista didn’t brew their coffee, but a cheap substitute wouldn’t do for them.

Humming again, Callan studied the small station with its deserted waiting room where he’d crashed plenty of nights. The reception desk divided the wide room between civilians and their team in blue.

Callan scrunched his eyebrows. What was that? He walked over to the desk, scowling and thinking of ‘Winter’ after ‘Autumn’.

A notepad lay discarded by its owner – tiny, black and embossed with: DCI Rory Macdonald, 2005. Callan frowned, Vivaldi fizzling into dead silence.

These were Rory’s notes from the summer of 2005. Where had they come from?

A tinkle by the front door alerted him. It unlatched with a groan to reveal the owner of the diary. His white candy-floss hair was ruffled, like he’d been running a hand through it, his plaid shirt – a match for his biscuit-coloured trousers – reflecting the wrinkles on his face.

DCI Macdonald, who liked to be addressed as Rory, gave Callan the eye. Then those experienced, all-seeing eyes studied the black notepad in Callan’s hand. ‘Nosing about, eh?’

‘Curious. The most important attribute for any detective.’

Rory chuckled, the tight lines beside his eyes crinkling, letting in some humour, before he ambled over to the coffee machine and lifted the carafe.

Why else would they have decent coffee in this place? They ran on it.

He slurped, taking his time to ponder over what to say. ‘Ye’ve closed yer share of cases, but the ones ye can’t solve?’

Callan sighed. ‘They haunt ye.’ As they did any detective.

Looking into his mug, Rory took another moment. ‘Ye learn to move on, even if it’s disappointing. Although sometimes some are so close to home, ye can’t let go.’

Guzzling his coffee, Rory stalked towards Callan and pointed at the notepad with his forefinger. ‘Fifteen years on, and this case still haunts me. Every summer.’

Callan saw it now. His hair, clothes and, aye, the missing spark of humour in his eyes didn’t complete the image of his boss.

The Summer of 2005 had changed everything. Not only for Rory, but also for the then teenaged Callan.

Steeling himself, Callan flipped a few more pages and read ‘Blaine Macgregor’.

Someone flicked a switch. The crushing weight of a thousand memories and sorrows flooded into his system, annihilating all the good ones he’d created with Aileen.

Blaine Macgregor, the boy who ran away.

He calmed his heart, although nothing stopped the memories pouring in like a river into the ocean. ‘Ye investigated his missing person case?’

‘As a detective inspector, aye. Blaine, the quiet, straight-A student with a father whose sole concern was how much his son scored in his tests.’ Rory ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it even more. ‘I wanted to find him. And now, fifteen years on?’

Callan got it. Rory wanted to reopen the case and put an end to this annual agony.

Rory’s mug clunked against the desk. ‘I’ve had it, Callan. I don’t want to go through this every summer, and it’s only a matter of time before I retire. It’s time to try again, give it another go before I put it in the past and forget.’

Seeing his usually laid-back boss like this disconcerted Callan so much that he blurted out, a student attempting to butter up his teacher, ‘I’ll look into it for ye. See if there’s any additional information come to light.’

Rory’s dull eyes met his. ‘Ye sure?’

Callan shrugged, as if contemplating a walk in the park. ‘It’s been quiet lately and I haven’t got much to do.’