It was from its white sandy shore that he and everyone else in Blackrig had learned to swim. It had been their summer playground until the late Lord Main, who’d had Ard Choille designed and built, had died, and the new owners, Global Investment Holdings, had denied access to the house grounds and ruined the shoreline with a Scandi-type wooden sauna and a concrete plinth which housed an open-air hot tub.

One of the many indignities the new owners had imposed on the people of Blackrig.

Greg noted the surrounding grass had been cut and the area spruced up. It was obvious from the garden at least that the house was being made ready for visitors.

It was all very well for him to deny that he had any responsibility for letting the house, when it was probably his visit to London that had generated its occupation in the first place.

He turned at the sound of a vehicle, to find Colin’s jeep coming to join him.

‘So it’s true, then?’ Colin said on approach.

Greg nodded. ‘There was an email early this morning. A party of eight, apparently, from London. They’re bringing a caterer with them. Arriving off the Caledonian Sleeper early tomorrow, then hired cars are bringing them from Inverness.’

Something he hadn’t mentioned to Caroline, or Joanne for that matter.

‘It’s a mistake to do this so soon.’ Colin looked worried. ‘Folk won’t like it.’

‘What can we do?’ Greg said. ‘Lockdown’s over. It’s perfectly legal.’

‘And it makes Global Investment Holdings upwards of twenty grand,’ Colin said.

‘We need to be at that meeting tonight,’ Greg said. ‘Plus be up here first thing tomorrow to see what they want to do while they’re here.’

Greg

The village hall was the heart of the small community. Used for weddings, birthday and anniversary celebrations, for summer and Hogmanay ceilidhs, for school recitals and prize-givings.

It was a place for wakes too, but not for those six deaths, because it hadn’t been allowed. All the community could do was to line the road between the church and the nearby graveyard in the woods, masked and two metres apart, to watch the hearses go by. Four of them carrying tiny coffins.

Greg and Colin had taken their place at the back of the hall, choosing to stand, knowing the rows of seats would swiftly fill up. Room had been left at the front for the bereaved families, and it was clear by their faces how raw their loss still was.

As four members of the community council mounted the stage, including Malcolm, who was the current chair, there was a roar of disapproval from the crowd, silenced by a male voice who shouted, ‘Malcolm’s wife died too.’

Greg didn’t recognize the owner, but his protest worked. It wasn’t Malcolm or the other members of the committee they were after, but the owners of the estate.