Just like five years ago, Blackrig and its inhabitants would be fair game. In fact, he need not have gone to London to try to attract visitors. The discovery of human remains had done his work for him.

Pacing out his anger through swift steps, he was soon at the gates of Ard Choille, which was lit up like some fairy-tale castle. Despite his anger at being there, he still took a moment to admire the realization of Lord Main’s dream. One which, sadly, the old man had not lived long enough to fully enjoy.

God knows what he would have made of what Ard Choille had become, Greg thought, as he spied the accompanying image of the forensic tent by the green lochan, also lit up, indicating the forensic team hadn’t yet completed their task.

He attempted to compose himself as he approached the house. He had no idea what use Stratton would have for him tonight, except that it would most probably include humiliation in some form or another. His best bet was to say as little as possible and not let himself get riled. He would play the dour Highlander. After all, that’s what they thought he was.

His rap with the stag’s head knocker brought an almost instantaneous command to come on up. Crossing the entrance hall, he stood for a moment before climbing towards the noise of the chattering voices and laughter, his disquiet increasing with each step.

They would have been drinking, of course. He’d vowed not to drink with them, but listening to the approaching cacophony, he was fast changing his mind, because it might be the only way to endure the evening.

They were all dressed up and had obviously not long finished dinner. He’d passed the dining room on his way up. Whatever staff they’d brought here were very discreet. The most he’d seen of them was a couple of females disappearing into the kitchen.

Dinner over, they were getting stuck into the champagne again, but Greg suspected the sparkling eyes came from more than just alcohol.

Stratton came to welcome him, clapping him on the back as though he was one of them, which he obviously wasn’t.

His one concession in coming here had been to wear the Blackrig tweed suit, his estate uniform, which established him as head keeper. When Lord Main had owned the estate, Greg had been proud to don the ancient tweed woven in the colours of moorland and green lochan.

Wearing it here now, he felt like a traitor to everything the old man had stood for.

‘A whisky? Or do you prefer something powder-based?’ Stratton offered with a smile.

‘Whisky,’ Greg said.

Having been handed a large malt, Greg took a mouthful and waited to be told why he’d really been summoned here.