‘Just needed a bit of quiet.’

His father nodded. ‘So, you’ll let Bill and Doris stay on at Deloraine until they retire, and we’ll sell the old farm before it falls down. It’s the perfect solution, really. You could just pop into Andy’s office two doors along and sign the paperwork now. Get the ball rolling.’

‘I’ve got to get to the airport.’

‘Well, you know how to get in touch with him,’ Dad said, sweeping up the envelope with the accusations scrawled across it before James could stop him, and holding out something else. ‘Some light reading once you’re on the plane.’

The smaller, white envelope had James’s name typed on it. He took it, sensing a thin document inside, as his father downed his coffee and stood.

‘This one’s on me. See you back over at the pub. Your cousin needs to get on the road soon.’

Dad laughed with the waitresses and muttered about his son needing the table for a ‘couple of minutes to think a few things over’.

Calmed by the solitude, James opened the new envelope. He’d never handled a will before, and as he scanned it, he encountered the paragraph in which Tony had dispassionately left him his entire estate.

The document was dated that year, with a hand-written codicil, signed and witnessed: ‘My estate includes my yacht, the Home Free, moored at Dangar.’

Now that was a kicker.

James reached into his pocket and unfolded the flyer from Tony’s funeral. The cover image of his cousin on the yacht leaped out again, captured somewhere far away from Kippen where that broad, genuine smile had appeared on that handsome face.

Awareness coursed through him, helping him shake off the beers and the pub. As he tucked the will and flyer safely in his pocket, James realised something about his father’s demeanour had been a touch overplayed.

All that talk about selling the farm had been meant to muddy the waters. The stuff about Mum was just weird, and the manner in which the tough cop had teared up when he’d finally handed over the court records had all the ingredients of a damned good act.

James was back on the main street walking in the opposite direction to the pub when he worked out he’d fallen for an old cop trick.

Fake leads keep journalist off the scent.

Sixteen 1985

SIXTEEN
1985

Beck needed to get her escape plan happening, but the only way she could do it without waking everyone at Deloraine was to use the phone in Bill’s workroom.

As she eased the office door open, she noticed the first sunlight leaking around the blinds. The room was musty, probably from the oil on the blackened hand towel hanging on the back of the door. Doris must have given up trying to keep things clean in here years ago.