Cover

THE
PARTY
HOUSE

Lin Anderson

Dedication page

This book is dedicated to my father, former Detective Inspector Bill Mitchell, who brought his family to live in the Highland village of Carrbridge

Map page

Ailsa

Before

Eleven o’clock and the sky was still light. In Glasgow it would be dark by now, she thought.

She hadn’t wanted to come here, to this dead-end village in the Highlands, but here she was.

You could have run away again, a small voice reminded her.

No, I made a deal. Come here, stay clean. Go to art college in September.

She’d hated it at first. Folk looking at her as though she’d just dropped in from outer space. They were friendly enough, she had to admit that, especially the local boys, who’d fought for her attention from the outset.

She smiled, remembering the fun she’d had with that, playing them off one against the other. It was a game that had kept her sane at the beginning. Made her feel good about herself. She’d even tasted some of the wares on offer, and found a few to her liking.

Especially when they took place here in the heart of the woods.

She ran her eyes over the circle of carvings that stood sentinel among the trees, thinking again how beautiful they were. The birds fashioned from stripped pine, some in flight, others resting quietly on a branch. Her favourite was the owl sitting watching her from atop a tree trunk pedestal.

He was so real that she often found herself talking to him.

Then the woodland creatures . . . A roe deer, she could imagine taking off to bound away through the trees. A pair of majestic wolves nearby which might pursue it. Even imagining this didn’t worry her, because she had no doubt who would win that particular race.

Her eyes were now drawn to the centre of the circle and the father and mother of all the carvings . . . literally. The green woman of the woods, together with the green man.

Until it was explained to her that they were a symbol of rebirth, she’d had no idea what the green faces staring out of the leaves and twigs were. Initially, she’d found them rather spooky. Once she knew they represented the cycle of new growth that occurred with every spring, her attitude to them had changed.

She’d starting bringing her sketch pad here and, sitting on this tree trunk, she’d drawn all of the carvings, then added a few imaginary ones of her own.

It was here she’d first encountered him. In fact, it was he who’d explained the carvings to her.

She was startled from her reverie by a burst of music escaping from the distant village hall as someone opened the back exit. Raucous shouts followed from the guys who were hanging about on the steps, drinking and smoking.

She’d already run that particular gauntlet when she’d left the ceilidh, with plenty of offers to walk her home. All the way to her family’s cottage, Forrigan.

The familiar faces of Josh Huntly and his assorted mates had met her at the door. She’d already danced with Josh and a couple of the others, including the shy Finn Campbell, but hadn’t taken anyone up on their offer, knowing full well a walk wasn’t what they had in mind.

Been there. Done that. No longer interested.

She checked her phone, but the waited-for message hadn’t arrived . . . yet.

She took a deep breath of the night air, filled with the scent of pine. The June weather had been warm and dry. Even here, the normally boggy ground and its three amber peaty pools had partially dried out.

The rain will come, everyone said. Hopefully soon enough to prevent a fire in the pinewoods or the moor.

She tried to imagine such a fire . . . the crackling of the bone-dry heather, the whoosh as the pine needles flared up, the hot sweet smell of smouldering peat.

It should have frightened her, but it didn’t. Not until she thought of the green woman and man ablaze. The leaves and winding branches that made up their bodies a mass of fire. Like back when they’d burned women as witches. That was an image she didn’t like.

The crack of a twig underfoot caused her to turn in anticipation.

She rose to greet him, hearing his footsteps cross the needle-strewn forest floor, feeling a surge of desire.

Her smile, at first warm and welcoming, slowly shifted to something very different as she realized the footsteps were multiple, and none of them were likely to be his.

Greg

Now

Blood hit the mirror in a fine spray.

Cursing, he grabbed a towel and wiped his face, his hand and then the mirror.

So much blood for such a small cut.

He was examining the damage when a sleepy Joanne appeared beside him to kiss the wound.

‘There,’ she said. ‘All better.’ She laughed. ‘For a man who can cleanly butcher a deer, you seem a little careless with your own face.’

There was a smear of blood on her lips. He put his mouth on hers, tasting it. This is what it had been like since the moment they’d met in London. This gnawing hunger for her, which had never abated.

Taking her in his arms, he lifted her on to the surface. She laughed as he moved to position himself between her legs.

Later, when he was finally dressed, she asked if he might pick up a few things in the local shop for her.

He assumed an amused smile. ‘I’m out on the hill all day. You could take a walk down yourself?’

She didn’t look keen to do that. ‘Caroline doesn’t like me,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘I told you, it’s not personal. Besides, you don’t strike me as a big fearty.’

‘What’s a big fearty?’ she demanded.

‘Something you’re not.’ He kissed her firmly. ‘There are venison steaks in the fridge. I’ll cook them when I get back.’

He headed out to the Land Rover, releasing his two labs, Cal and Sasha, from their kennels to jump into the back.

In the glen below, where Blackrig nestled, the morning sun had burned off most of the mist, although faint spirals of it still rose from the surrounding pinewoods like spirits escaping the dawn.

Settled now in the Land Rover, he glanced in the rear-view mirror to find Joanne, still in a state of undress, observing his departure. He hooted the horn in response to her wave, and thought back to the moment they’d first met.

Greg

Then

Alighting from the Caledonian Sleeper in the early morning, he’d been greeted by a solid wall of heat and city smells.

It had been hot overnight in the single-berth cabin, so much so that he’d eventually lain naked in the bunk, rising early to wash and dress before his coffee and croissant had been delivered by a cheerful guard.

Gaining the platform had felt like stepping into an oven. He’d almost forgotten just how sweltering it could be down here during the summer months.

It wasn’t his first time in London, but the virus had prevented his annual visit to advertise the Blackrig Estate at the Highland Game event. Lockdown had hit the estate and its associated hunting and fishing visitors hard.

Now it was time to start it up again. So, as head ghillie on the small Highland estate, he was here to spread the word that visitors were welcome at Blackrig once more.

Walking towards the exit, he found himself dodging the swarms of people that filled the concourse, his brain still wired into the two-metre rule, or a coffin’s length apart. True, a few folk in the crowd were still wearing masks. As for the rest, it looked like the mass deaths had already been forgotten in the UK’s capital city.

Not so in his own neck of the woods, he thought. Not everyone in Blackrig was happy about opening up again to tourists. And there was a very good reason for that.

Greg shoved that thought to the back of his mind and concentrated on finding his way to the conference hotel. He would have preferred to stay in the open air, however muggy, but despite his earlier plan to walk to the venue, he found himself heading for the tube, since it was clear the crowded streets were no less busy than what he was likely to meet below ground. Plus he would get to his destination quicker.

Having seen very few people during the previous eighteen months, except when he’d ventured to the village shop or encountered locals out for a walk in the woods or the hills, he now found himself intrigued by the faces of the people sharing the carriage with him.

Especially the women.

Colin Aitken, his assistant ghillie, had warned him that would happen. ‘You’ve been sex-deprived for yonks. Make sure you find someone quick. You’ve got a lot of time to make up and you’re only there for a few days.’ He’d looked so wistful as he’d said it that Greg had almost offered to let Colin go to London in his place.

Now, seated between two brightly dressed attractive women, Greg was glad he hadn’t, although he wasn’t sure if he could deal with making the moves that might take him further than just chat with any woman he met at the event.

Walking the hills or lying in bed alone, he’d fantasized plenty about sex during lockdown, but fantasies were just that – fantasies – and not real life.

Reaching the hotel, he checked in and made his way up to his room, pleased to find it sufficiently air-conditioned to make him think he was back in Scotland. The event material had been delivered, along with a bottle of whisky to welcome him. Had it not been so early he would have poured himself a dram.

His mobile buzzed shortly after that, suggesting Colin had been tailing him.

‘You’re there?’

‘I am,’ Greg assured him.

‘What’s it like?’ Colin sounded eager.

‘It’s London. Hot and crowded.’

‘Women?’

‘Thousands if not millions of them,’ Greg told him.

‘Lucky bastard. Remember, they’ll all have been in lockdown too.’

‘Sadly, it’ll be mostly hunting and shooting men that I’ll be meeting with. All well up there?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before Colin said, ‘Caroline says there’s a rumour going round that we’re planning to open up the Party House again soon.’

It wasn’t a rumour. In fact, it was one of the reasons he was here. There was alternative accommodation for small weekend shooting parties on the estate, and he was planning to focus on that. Mostly because he wasn’t happy himself about the thought of the Party House being used.

‘They’ll have to do it sometime,’ he reminded Colin. ‘It makes a lot of money for the estate owners.’

‘There’ll be trouble if they do,’ Colin said darkly.

There was no answer to that, so Greg didn’t attempt one. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of days. Don’t mess up before then,’ he ordered.

Colin was young and keen, but he had his daft moments. Which was partly the reason he hadn’t sent him down here in his place.

Realizing how hungry he was, he decided it was time to check out the restaurant, plus take a look at the itinerary for the weekend.

That was when he first saw her.

She was sitting just inside, working on a laptop, a coffee alongside. She looked up at his approach, gave him a studied look, then smiled.

‘Greg Taylor, Blackrig Estate?’ She rose and held out her hand. ‘Joanne Addington, here to do a piece for The Field.’

Surprised she should know his name, he found himself saying, ‘Have we met before?’, thinking maybe at some drunken do, at a previous event.

‘Only on paper.’ She waved the list of contributors with their photos at him. ‘In this one you’re wearing a kilt.’ She looked him up and down.

‘Company policy, but only in the evening,’ he said, matching her smile.

She pulled her laptop towards her a little. ‘Join me, please. I don’t know anyone here, except you now.’

And that’s how it all began.

Greg

Later, he would question the way she seemed to have picked him from among all the other men who’d been there that weekend, just as he would question many things. But at that moment he was pleased to be the chosen one, because it didn’t matter who’d made the first move, since what followed had closely matched his own lockdown fantasies.

And those fantasies had brought her here to Beanach, his home on the estate. Something he hadn’t imagined possible. Yet on their last day in London, he’d found himself inviting her to Blackrig, now that lockdown was over. To his surprise, she’d immediately accepted.

‘I’d love to come, and soon. It sounds like a perfect place to write.’ She’d drawn him to her at that point, ‘and do the other things you’ve promised.’

And so, ten days later, he was picking her up off the Caledonian Sleeper at Inverness.

Watching her step onto the platform of the quiet station, he remembered his own reaction to the difference between their two worlds. She stood for a moment, as if doubting her decision to come here, before he called out her name. Then, catching sight of him, her face broke into a wide smile and, picking up her bag, she headed towards him.

He remembered thinking how little luggage she’d brought with her, and wondering if that was an indication of how long she planned to stay.

They loosely embraced rather than kissing, signifying perhaps the space that had grown between them during the previous ten days.

‘No kilt, I see,’ she quipped. ‘Although you do look like a gamekeeper.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ he said, lifting her bag. ‘The Land Rover’s not far.’

Once on the open road, silence replaced the casual chit-chat they’d engaged in as they’d walked to the car park.

He was conscious now of the dwindling signs of settlement and the increasing emptiness as they headed west. He decided not to pester her by talking, but left her to gaze silently out of the window at the beautiful but daunting landscape.

Eventually she said, ‘This is amazing.’ She turned a stunned gaze on him. ‘I had no idea that it was so beautiful.’ She shook her head. ‘Of course, I’ve seen lots of photographs, but they don’t do the Highlands justice.’

He smiled his joy at that. ‘Wait until you see the view from Beanach.’

‘That’s your home. You told me Beanach was Gaelic for “blessing”.’

‘I’m impressed you remember that part of the evening,’ he said honestly.

She laid a hand on his thigh. ‘I remember all of it.’

After that he’d given her a running commentary on the hills, lochs, rivers and hamlets they’d driven through, which she seemed truly interested in. When they took the final turn-off towards Blackrig, he explained that the main road ended at the village. ‘There’s no other route in.’

He slowed as they reached the English–Gaelic sign for Blackrig. Laughingly, she attempted the Gaelic version, An Druim Dubh, with little success.

He corrected her. ‘You’ll have to learn to roll your Rs and ignore half the letters,’ he added with a smile.

As they passed the now-discarded road barriers sporting the words KEEP OUT, PANDEMIC and LOCKDOWN, he explained.

‘We had problems with campervans, and folk from south trying to outrun the virus,’ he said. ‘Hence the barriers, which were manned twenty-four seven.’

‘And did it work?’

‘Up to a point,’ he said.

Entering the village, he gave her the short, express tour. ‘On the left, the church and the village hall. On the right, the Blackrig Arms, our local hotel and pub, and the primary school. The older pupils have a bit further to travel, back the way we came. Plus the all-important village shop, which saved us during the pandemic when we couldn’t get to the supermarket in Inverness. I need to stop for milk,’ he added, drawing up outside the little shop, where a large chalked sign displayed the message: VISITORS TO BLACKRIG MUST WEAR A MASK AND SANITIZE HANDS BEFORE ENTRY

Joanne looked askance at it as she climbed out of the vehicle. ‘Maybe I should just wait outside?’

‘No, I need to introduce you to the village and this is the quickest way.’

He kissed her firmly on the mouth before putting her mask on. Then, squeezing some gel into his own hands, he massaged hers and led her inside.

He knew there was every chance that Caroline would be behind the Perspex screen, and he wasn’t wrong. She looked up on his entry and gave him a big smile, then she caught sight of the masked Joanne.

‘Joanne, this is a good friend of mine, Caroline, who runs the shop and helped to keep us fed and watered during the pandemic.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Caroline,’ Joanne muttered from behind her mask.

‘Joanne’ll be staying with me up at Beanach for a while.’ He smiled encouragingly at Joanne.

‘Really?’ Caroline took a moment to process this bit of news.

Greg could almost hear her brain working. So, he went south for the weekend and ten days later she arrives to stay with him.

‘Where have you come from?’ Caroline said, now giving her full attention to the incomer.

With a quick glance in Greg’s direction, Joanne answered, ‘London.’

Caroline shot Greg a look that told him clearly what she thought of that.

‘And how long are you here for?’

‘Not sure, yet.’ Joanne glanced at Greg again, who smiled in return, hoping that signified he was open to suggestion.

‘We heard rumours that the Party House was opening up. Is that true?’ Caroline said as he paid for the milk.

‘It’s not been confirmed,’ Greg told her.

‘Folk don’t want that place let. Not now. Not ever.’

Once outside, Joanne handed him her mask. ‘What’s the Party House and why are folk so mad about it?’

He didn’t want to tell her. Even having the words of explanation in his head filled him with dread, but she would hear about it eventually, and it was better coming from him.

‘Six people in the village died from the virus. Malcolm’s wife from the hotel, a teenage boy, two young children and two infants.’ He heard the catch in his voice. ‘We were in lockdown, socially distancing, even out on the hills and in the woods. We set up the barricades, did everything right, then the estate owners brought in a party of folk from London by helicopter to the Party House. They brought the new strain with them, which was affecting children badly, and it killed six people before it was contained. That’s why locals don’t want it to open up again.’

He felt her shock, and reached out to take her hand.

‘How awful,’ she said. ‘No wonder Caroline didn’t like me being here.’

They’d reached the Land Rover and he opened the door for her.

‘It’s not you personally,’ he said.

The truth was Caroline wouldn’t have liked any woman who came to visit him, but now wasn’t the time to mention that.

‘It’s just hard, after everything that’s happened, for Blackrig to open to visitors again.’

She stayed silent as he started up the engine and, drawing away from the shop, took the single-track road that would eventually lead them to Beanach.

He’d known things would be different here from London, and yet, he reminded himself, she had chosen to come. He had to assume that she wanted more of what they’d had together there.

It was time to see if he was right.

Having made his decision, he immediately left the track and entered the outskirts of the nearby woods, startling a roe deer which darted away through the undergrowth, its white tail bobbing ahead of them.

‘Where are we going?’ she shouted, gripping the door handle.

‘You’ll see,’ he said.

Coming to a halt, he got out, opened her door and, grabbing her hand, urged her to come with him.

‘Where?’ she said, sounding unsure whether to be alarmed.

He smiled reassuringly. ‘Come with me, please.’

The sun drifted down through the mix of pine, silver birch and rowan as he led her even deeper into the woods. The scent of rowan blossom and the murmur of feasting bees filled the air.

He’d told her what it would be like here, but now she could see and smell it for herself. The bustle of the city no longer existed. She was in a different world. His world. He saw her smile, and knew she was pleased by that.

Eventually they arrived at the place he’d described to her. The place he wanted her to see. The place where he wanted to make love to her.

The tall Caledonian pine was multi-branched, twisted and ancient. Scots pine trees were known to live for up to seven hundred years, he’d told her. This one, his favourite, would have stood here for at least five hundred. ‘Think what it would have seen.’

‘This is the tree you told me about?’ Joanne said, touching the lichen-covered trunk and looking upwards at the two thin strips of leather that hung from the lowest branch. She laughed. ‘Are they there for me?’

‘At your request, if you remember?’

‘I do.’ She smiled.

This wildness is what they remembered of each other. It was what they’d shared during those heady days in London. This was why she had come here, so that he might keep his promise.

Both naked now, he lightly touched her mouth with his, then slid slowly down, circling her breasts, pulling at her nipples, down to breathe softly against the springy hair until her body rose towards him. When she called out in pleasure, he pulled himself up beside her.

‘Okay?’ he said.

‘Better than okay.’

She reached up to catch hold of the leather strips and, leaning back against the trunk, urged him to continue.

This was the desire she’d revealed to him. To make love like this in a forest. Far away from London, from everyone. The lockdown fantasy that she’d replayed for him countless times.

As he took her hands in his own, she kissed him fully on the mouth.

‘That was worth coming here for,’ she said with a smile.

‘Your wish is my command.’

As they made their way back to the Land Rover the sound of a gunshot split the air.

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