She recalled the previous Sunday morning’s conversation with Morag, when she’d mentioned that a family called Armstrong were about to arrive.
‘So long as it’s not that Archie Armstrong!’ Morag had exclaimed, raising her eyes to heaven and her mug of tea to her lips.
‘Well, I think it just might be because that is the name they booked with – Mr and Mrs Archibald Armstrong, their two daughters and another couple who I believe are related.’
At this, Morag had to sit down, hand on heart. ‘Did you not know that he’s the champion Canadian hammer thrower and caber tosser? Oh my God, just wait until I tell our Micky and our Bobby! We knewthat manwas over here earlier in the year competing at other Highland Games, but we thought he’d gone home by now. He calls himself the Atlantic Warrior!’
Ally had no idea about Atlantic Warriors. She’d taken their booking, delighted to have her three guest rooms booked for a week so late in the year. Atlantic Warrior or not, he, along with his wife, two daughters, sister and brother-in-law were all staying in The Auld Malthouse.
Standing at the kitchen window as Morag bustled off to finish cleaning the rooms, Ally had looked out over her garden and the purple hills stretching out behind in the morning sunshine. It was a good end to the season, and she braced herself to cope with the months ahead. Sometimes she wondered if her children had been right when they’d tried to dissuade her – then in her late sixties – from purchasing the old, empty malthouse. Her son, Jamie, had been particularly sceptical about the whole thing, not least because he’d lived close to her in Edinburgh and liked to keep an eye on her. Her daughter,Carol, down in Wiltshire, was a little more encouraging, knowing about her mother’s love of adventure, but also possibly thinking of free holidays with her family.
For hundreds of years, the building had been used for storing malt for the whisky which had now been moved to more hygienic premises. She’d come up on holiday and fallen in love with the old place in its glorious setting halfway up the hill beneath the huge, turreted castle towering above and the village straddling the river below. Should she have stayed in her comfortable Edinburgh flat instead of moving up here and converting this old building?
Good Lord, no,no! Particularly not on this golden September day!
‘What are they like as a family?’ Ross asked now as he refilled their glasses, comfortable in their seats by the fire.
‘Pleasant enough,’ Ally said, sipping her gin. ‘They were very complimentary about the place, and said that, while they were touring Scotland anyway, they’d decided to visit Locharran to compete in the games. Archie had Scottish parents and liked to visit often.’
‘When did they get here?’ Ross asked. He lived a few miles away in a converted barn, closer to the coast, where he had a thriving holiday business. When they’d become lovers, it was normally more practical for him to sleep at the malthouse where, most of the time, Ally had guests. On Sunday evening, however, when the Armstrongs had arrived, he’d been at home dealing with some of his own guests who’d arrived very late.
‘They arrived on Sunday evening, as scheduled, in a people carrier. Archie and Patti have Room One, the two girls are in Room Two, and Archie’s sister, Wendy, and her husband Greg Watson, have Room Three.’
‘There was no sign of them being at daggers drawn with each other or anything then?’ Ross asked.
‘No, not at all. They all seemed very happy and friendly,and enjoying staying here. They’ve had the full Scottish breakfast every morning. Except for Patti, who only has tea and toast, or cereal.’
‘So, no problems?’
‘Well, no, but when I asked them if they’d slept well, one of the girls said she’d wakened in the night and heard some funny noises coming from the bathroom and thought it was the wind. Except there was no wind on Sunday night, so need I say more?’
Ross rolled his eyes. ‘God, notWillieagain!’
Wailing Willie was the ghost Ally had inherited when she bought the malthouse. A couple of hundred years back, Willie, a local piper, had broken into the malthouse one night because he’d been told, correctly, that there was a stash of bottles of the end product locked away in an upstairs storeroom. He’d taken his bagpipes with him and, as he’d drunk his way through the golden liquid, he’d played a few tunes to celebrate. That was fine until he’d hit the second bottle when, drunk as a skunk, the ‘music’ had evolved into a series of drawn-out wails. Willie had died a very happy man in what had now become the en-suite bathroom to Room 2. And his wails always signalled an imminent death.
Ally had been sceptical at first. Ridiculous! Typical village gossip! Until, that is, Willie’s wails had actually forecast several deaths since Ally had moved in.
Ally was becoming more and more concerned about the return of the remaining guests and, draining her glass, stood up. ‘I think I’ll suggest they go into the sitting room when they get back,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Although I’ve no idea when that’s likely to be. I think I should leave some bottles of spirits and mixers in there for them to help themselves because they must still be in a state of shock.’
‘They walked down to the games, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, so I expect it’ll be the police who bring them back,’ Ally said, watching as Ross set up a tray with bottles and glasses.
‘I think I can hear a car out there now,’ Ross said, lifting up the laden tray and making his way towards the sitting room.
As Ally followed him, she opened the front door to see Detective Inspector Amir Kandahar standing there. Behind him, the Armstrong family were slowly getting themselves out from the police car.
He looked somewhat weary this evening, and who could blame him? The family had now formed a line behind him: Patti, tearful, make-up smudged, hair hanging limply round her shoulders, was supported by her equally tearful two daughters, with the other couple walking slowly behind.
‘Please come into the sitting room and relax, if you can,’ Ally said, stepping aside to let them enter. ‘Help yourselves to anything you want, and do let me know if I can get you any hot drinks or anything.’
Patti nodded, let out a wail and collapsed on the sofa. The tear-stained girls plonked themselves down on either side of her, holding her hands. The only person who seemed to be in control was Greg Watson, husband of Wendy, who was still weeping openly.
‘This is real kind of you,’ he said to Ally. ‘I guess we just need to sit here quietly for a while in this beautiful room of yours and get our strength back.’ He took a deep breath. ‘These four gals have been through hell this afternoon.’
One of the girls – was it Janey or Julie? – stood up suddenly. ‘Someone’s just killed ourdaddy!’ she shouted before falling back onto the sofa again and cuddling up to her mother.
‘I am so sorry,’ Ally said. ‘I really don’t know what to say other than if I can help with anything in any way…’ Her voice tailed off.
