When Birds Fall Silent

Chapter 1-2

‘I let it loose on our local grapevine for people to step forward if they’ve got any information. They could do so anonymously too.’

Callan filled his mug again. ‘We’d get more clues that way.’ He’d need fuel if he wanted to put his best foot forward. ‘Let me set up a board, see how it all played out.’

Incredibly stupid. He’d been a bampot.

Blaine Macgregor wasn’t some random missing person, but someone Callan shared a past with.

He ran a frustrated hand over his hair for the thousandth time. Fifteen years and the mystery of this missing lad still sat unsolved, leaving haunting questions in its wake. Everyone, including Rory, after two years of colossal investigation, had conceded that Blaine had indeed run away without informing a soul about his plans.

How did Blaine leave town?

Rory had scribbled the question in his notes in a barely legible chicken scrawl. As yet, it sat unanswered. Legible or not, the question etched itself into Callan’s mind. No one knew how he’d got away, especially with just the clothes on his back and no money in his pockets.

Not one watchful soul from Loch Fuar had seen Blaine take the train out of town; nor had they seen him boarding a bus. There was little traffic around the train station or bus stops. A train passed through the town twice a day and the bus once every four hours. Quaint.

It was easy to track a passenger, even in the times before video surveillance. The town had always had those all-seeing eyes and wagging tongues.

Callan leaned a hip on his paper-strewn desk, hand wrapped around his coffee cup. A few sheets crumpled under his weight, and the desk let out a groan.

Slurping the bitter sludge, he perused the board, mind clicking away facts and figures. It wasn’t a murder board – at least he hoped not. He stared at the collage of the past – his past.

Blaine Macgregor, then aged eighteen, had been bony and short, unlike most lads his age. He’d taken his features from his Asian mother. He looked like her too, save for the light smattering of a moustache on his upper lip and those freckles.

Turning to the file he’d dug from old records, Callan read it, piecing everything together. An all-nighter stared him in the face. But he needed to lay it all out first, maybe armed with three pitchers of coffee.

Rory tapped on his door, drawing Callan awake with a gasp. ‘Ye spent the night here?’

He blinked the sleep from his eyes and groaned upright in his chair. Damn it! Now his bloody muscles would be stiff from slumber. He hadn’t meant to doze off. He’d been so deep into this case, he’d had to sit back, unknot thoughts and think things through. Callan couldn’t remember when he’d tumbled into sleep or what had become of his super-early alarm.

Rory clomped in and hefted the few files covering the visitor’s chair away. They dropped to the floor with a clap. ‘Ye could clean up, ye ken.’

Callan trudged towards the coffee machine, eyes swollen from sleep and his head in a haze. ‘What brings ye here this early? It’s barely dawn out.’

Rory crossed his legs and sat back. ‘How are ye getting on with it?’

A sip of dark petrol, and his eyes awoke. Callan studied his boss’s every tell. The pallor of his skin matched the white scruff that begged for a shave. The shirt he wore pleaded for an iron. They hadn’t a good night’s rest between them.

And this would be the case until they resolved this mystery once and for all.

Sometimes it was better to crack on than linger. ‘I wanted to walk through the investigation with ye.’

Rory nodded, but didn’t lean in to contribute. Instead, he stared at the board Callan had set up. ‘Hit me.’

Facing the board, Callan caressed his prickly chin and crunched the facts. He had no time to shave or brush his teeth. Not yet. ‘First off, who were the last people to see him?’

‘Cosimo Bocelli and Patricia Adair.’

Callan frowned, eyebrows piled high on his forehead. A consultation with the notes had him question a few facts. ‘Blaine went missing after sundown. His father would’ve skinned him if he didn’t get back before dusk.’

Rory’s boots thudded as he came up to Callan. ‘His parents said he never came home that night. Now to be honest? I didn’t peg the Macgregors as a happy sort.’

Blaine’s youthful face stared back at them from the board, smiling. The small smile didn’t reach his eyes – it never had.

Callan thought back to Blaine’s house. ‘He lived in the neighbourhood closest to the Kirk School. He’d be the first one to get to school every morning.’

Rory hummed. ‘Studious bloke but apparently terrified of his father. His mother, I remember, sniffled the entire time, burrowing into the sofa like a timid mouse.’

His boss tapped his feet on the floor. ‘The father didn’t show a speck of emotion for his missing son. I’d have been in pieces if it were me. I couldn’t sleep the night my wean went off to college, and I knew he’d be safe there – had his contact details too.’

Rory made an excellent point. Parents argued with their children all the time, but it didn’t mean they hated them.

‘He wanted Blaine to pursue a medical profession. However, Blaine wanted to play the piano. They had wild arguments about it.’ At least they did when Blaine had enough courage to speak up.

‘His father assumed he’d run away.’ Rory tapped Blaine’s photo. ‘Told me he’d been planning this for weeks.’

Callan heard the lingering but in Rory’s voice.

‘But no one saw him board the bus or train. And in a tiny town like Loch Fuar, someone always sees what they shouldn’t.’

Rory’s frustration and helplessness were tangible. In a rare act of kinship, Callan placed a hand on his boss’s shoulder. ‘We’ll find him, Rory. This time we will find him.’

Rory shut his eyes. ‘Dead or alive?’

Callan’s heart squeezed as shards of ice pricked painfully. Dead or alive, he couldn’t tell, but finding his former best friend?

He’d die trying.

A light breeze puffed through the air, and no clouds interrupted the warm morning.

Aileen stifled a yawn. Yesterday had been so tiring, she’d barely managed to open her eyes this morning. Her muscles ached, and she longed for a nice, long bubble bath.

She had no time to spare for such frivolities, though. The ping of her email brought her back to reality. Long bubble baths were a thing of the past when you had a fledgling business in your busy hands.

Aileen hunched over the laptop, reading and responding to emails. She’d finally opened the reservations tab on Dachaigh’s website and requests were pouring in like a waterfall after a frozen winter. The inn smelled fresh and cosy – it was a respite for any traveller, thanks to the handyman, Daniel McIntyre. Aileen brought out her gran’s aprons. They had stains, tangible reminders of hazy, happy memories.

A handful of guests lodged at the inn. However, she’d have to operate at full capacity for a couple of months for the books to turn black.

Aileen gazed out the window. The flowers on her windowsill danced in the breeze. Not long now before autumn descended and coloured the landscape orange.

Yesterday had been a riot with Callan by her side. They’d continued their banter all through their late lunch, gobbling spaghetti and chocolate tarts. She’d never admit it to Isla, her best friend, who always tried to wrangle the two of them together, but Callan knew how to have fun.

Should she text him and see if he wanted to meet her tonight?

Excitement bubbled in her gut. No, she was being pushy. Aileen didn’t want to be one of those girlfriends.

Girlfriend… Was she Callan’s—

The front door creaked, jolting Aileen out of her reverie.

A man dressed in a dark coat stepped in. His bulk blocked the sunlight streaming in from the doorway, his fuzzy white hair glowing like a halo.

Limping towards the reception desk, he asked in a strong burr, ‘Is this Dachaigh?’ His voice echoed through the reception area.

Aileen smiled in greeting. ‘Yes. Good morning. I’m Aileen Mackinnon, the innkeeper. How can I help you?’

He didn’t bother returning the smile. A beady set of grey orbs pinned her to the spot. ‘I need a room for a week at the maximum.’ The burr, coupled with a scowl, could give someone the wrong impression. She hadn’t angered him, had she?

Not wanting to irritate him further – if she indeed had – Aileen bobbed her head, hoping her smile didn’t look like a grimace. ‘Sure.’ She clicked a few keys on her laptop. He scratched his beard, which mirrored his hair but clashed like a chessboard with his tanned skin. ‘I think we can accommodate you for a week. I’ll need some details though.’

When she asked for proof of identity – something she insisted on now thanks to previous experience – he reluctantly handed her a driving licence that bore the name, ‘Matthew Edgar’.

It placed him in his mid-fifties and – Aileen blew a raspberry – showed her he didn’t care for his things; his licence had frayed edges.

Aileen logged his details on her new system and used the software to allot a room. Despite his scowl, she held on to her smile. She might end up adding sore cheeks to her list of aching body parts. His haughtiness didn’t bother her. She had plenty of practise dealing with grumpy people now, thanks to Callan.

Aileen plucked a brochure from the myriad ones she’d made on Loch Fuar or brought over from the tourist information centre. She kept an upbeat chirp in her voice. ‘This is a map of Loch Fuar; it’s handy when you’re trying to get around. We don’t always have internet connectivity here.’

Edgar dismissed the proffered map with a wave of his hands. He hadn’t glanced at it. ‘I’m fine.’

Scrapping the meagre leftovers of her even temper, Aileen fought to make conversation. ‘Are you here to visit family?’

The man paused, his gruff tone falling to a threatening hush. ‘Why do ye want to ken?’

She chuckled, her laugh shaky. ‘Well, you’d need a map if you were a tourist. If you’ve been here before—’

‘Tourist,’ he gritted out. ‘I’m a tourist here. I got my brochures at the tourist information centre.’

‘Oh, wonderful.’ Aileen smiled too brightly. Her palms had gone cold. ‘Though you mustn’t miss the—’

‘I don’t need yer help. My room?’

Aileen cleared her throat and considered throwing him a dirty look. But a walk-in customer for an entire week? How could she refuse?

She handed his keycard over and watched him trudge up the stairs. His left leg must hurt, for he took each of the stairs with his right.

Aileen frowned. Did she have a penchant to attract nasty guests? Had he conned her, or was he a genuine tourist?

She gulped those thoughts down and stomached the curiosity. Her brain had become conditioned to search for mysteries even in the most straightforward situations.

To keep her hands busy and mind quiet, Aileen rearranged the clutter on her desk, stacking the registers in a neat pile, and making sure she’d categorised and aligned the brochures before collecting the pens littering the table. Three needed refilling. Aileen pursed her lips. Where had she kept the refills?

In the Control Room.

Muttering to herself, she made her way to the first floor. Her footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell, and thanks to her sore glutes, she walked stiffly.

The next time Callan came round, she’d give him a piece of her mind. What had he been thinking training her like she’d be wrestling for gold in the Olympics?

Once on the landing, the worn carpet muffled her heavy treads. The carpet ensured she didn’t bother guests if they were having a lie-in, although most of them had gone off for the day.

Birdsong drenched Loch Fuar’s verdant moors in a calming blanket, and the sunshine wove a golden curtain of cheer, though everyone knew such weather in Scotland could fizzle out like an unattended candle by the windowsill.

The carpet ran the length of the long corridor with guests’ rooms on either side. At the end, sat the Control Room, now locked securely from light fingers. Aileen kept all the stationery, records, and CCTV footage in there.

The corridor smelled of fresh meadows, a perfect fit for the day. Aileen grinned, a genuine smile this time.

She’d designed her amazing life!

A muffled thud stopped her short. Where had it come from? Weren’t her guests out?

Aileen caught the ajar door to her right. Room 7, the plaque on the door said. Mr Matthew Edgar’s room.

Come on, Aileen! Stop being jumpy. He must be placing his suitcase in—

‘No one should see me. I’m telling ye.’ The hiss carried from Edgar’s room.

Aileen strained her ears. Who was he speaking to?

He must be on the phone…

After a long pause, he responded. ‘No! I’ll find a way to get there. Half-past two, aye. Aye. Come alone!’

A lull settled again before Edgar hummed a ‘yes’ and muttered a curse. ‘I told ye. Be there.’ His tone brooked no disagreement and then came silence. Aileen’s heart sped like a bullet train. A floorboard creaked in place.

Had he hung up?

Aileen unfroze when a shadow fell between the ajar door and the adjacent wall. Thinking on her feet, Aileen strode towards the Control Room.

As she reached it, the door to Room 7 swung open. ‘Ms Mackinnon,’ a gruff voice called.

‘Ah! Um…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Mr Edgar.’

He smiled thinly. Had he caught her? His beady eyes bored into hers, seeking answers. The man towered over her petite frame, his bulk twice as wide as hers. ‘Is everything alright?’ he asked, his tone patronising.

Aileen slid icy hands into her pockets. ‘Of course, just, ah… getting some supplies.’ She chuckled. ‘Is everything alright? In your room, I mean.’

Edgar smirked. ‘I’m fine. Excuse me.’ He walked back in and shut the door with a definitive click.

This man was not a tourist. But she’d never seen him before.

Isla, gossip extraordinaire, should know.

Who had he been talking to? What plans were they making? Who exactly was Edgar?

She should follow him and—

Aileen shook herself. Everyone applauded her on her professionalism. They didn’t care for this nosy cat she’d transformed into!

She put a lid on her curiosity and grabbed the metallic doorknob.

Sliding into the room, Aileen got back to work.