‘Well,’ said Morag, by way of greeting, ‘at least that Armstrong man’s no goin’ to come firstthis time! I’m expectin’ our Micky to win this one.’
Ally had no special fondness for Micky but knew it wouldimprove Morag’s mood in the morning if he did win. She discovered that Finlay’s younger son, Fergus, was also running, as Ross had thought, along with Forby and Tom, the much-fancied young ghillie.
It was hardly a marathon, but nevertheless it did take some stamina to run ten or eleven miles and, for the most part, over rough, uneven terrain.
Alongside the barbecue was a huge bin full of cans of beer for the thirsty. On a side table, there were also soft drinks and bottles of wine. Ross opted for a beer, while Ally poured herself a glass of red wine. She hoped the event wouldn’t last too long, although, doubtless, it couldn’t finish until the last contestant staggered in.
Wendy, still limping, had appeared at Ally’s side. ‘I’d have thought that Greg would be here by now,’ she said, looking worried. ‘I thought he’d be here half an hour ago.’
‘He probably had to keep side-stepping to let the runners go by,’ Ally pointed out.
‘I expect you’re right,’ Wendy said, but she looked doubtful. ‘I’ve tried phoning him, but there’s no reply.’
They stood sipping their drinks for about ten minutes before the first runner came stumbling in, gasping and grinning.
It was Forby McKinnon!
There was much applause and cheering, with Finlay and Aisla whooping with delight as Forby crashed down on the grass, grabbing a much-needed proffered can of beer.
‘Well, well,’ said Morag, her lips tight. ‘There’s a surprise!’
Murdo shook his head. ‘Thae lads didn’t have enough time to prepare for this, that’s the trouble.’
Let’s hope Micky’s second, for all of our sakes,Ally thought.
But he wasn’t. The next runner to come staggering in was Ivan, the Craigmonie barman, and it was another good five minutes before Micky McConnachie made hisappearance, coming in third, with brother Bobby just behind him, and then Tom, the ghillie.
There was much cheering and clapping, with Morag still muttering about how Forby McKinnon could possibly have beaten her two sons, when he didn’t do half the bodybuilding they did? ‘And,’ she said to Ally, ‘that Forby McKinnon’s goin’ home with a hundred quid in his bloody pocket, and he doesn’tneedit! Not like our lads do! Them McKinnons have got plenty of money!’
Ally, fed up of her grumbling, moved away to where Forby was being congratulated by everyone, and young Tom was being congratulated by an excited, shiny-eyed Julie.
The final few runners had now arrived in various stages of dilapidation, but there was still no sign of Greg.
Wendy was asking each of the runners if they had seen her husband, but apparently no one had. She came back to where Ally was standing. ‘No one’s seen Greg,’ she said, ‘and I’m getting really worried now. He was only doing the last three or four miles of the route, so he should have been back long before this.’
‘Surely he’d have been in touch if he had a problem?’ Ally said. ‘I mean, he would have had his phone with him, wouldn’t he?’
‘He never goes out without it,’ Wendy said. ‘But I’ve called him several times now and there’s still no reply.’
‘Perhaps he forgot it, or it needed charging?’ Ally suggested.
Ross had come back to join her and overheard the conversation. ‘I think it’s more likely there’s no signal up there,’ he said, pointing up at the moorland.
‘You mean he could have fallen over and injured himself and wouldn’t be able to contact anyone?’ Wendy’s voice had risen in panic.
‘I’ll tell you what I think, Wendy,’ Ally said. ‘I think he was hot, sweaty and exhausted, and he’s made his way back to themalthouse for a bath and a rest. He’ll probably appear here any minute now.’
Wendy seemed slightly relieved. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps I should try phoning again.’
At this point, Hamish called for a hush and, with the help of a loudhailer, presented Forby with his winnings in an envelope, causing further cheers from his friends and family, if not the McConnachies.
An increasingly jittery Wendy reappeared, having been chatting to more of the runners.
‘No one’s seen him,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll go back down to the malthouse to see if Greg’s gone back there. I’m sure that’s probably what he’s done. And he didn’t seem all that keen on coming to the barbecue anyway.’
Ross put his hand on her arm. ‘Look, you’ve got a sore foot, so I’ll pop down and check that he’s there. He most likely is and has fallen asleep.’
‘Isn’t he agentleman!’ Wendy said admiringly as Ross set off.
