The Pretender’s Gold. Scott Mariani
With a trembling hand Ross started up the van engine, then took off in a rush. He couldn’t wait to get home. This was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most wonderful and exciting day of his entire life.
It would also prove to be one of the last. He didn’t know it yet, but he would never live to see his fantasies come true. Nor did he have any idea of the chain of events his strange discovery was about to set in motion.
If Ross Campbell had not found the gold coins that had lain hidden all this time in the forest, people would not have been hurt or killed. None of the things that were about to happen would have taken place. And the men who were soon to be drawn into the web of danger would not have become involved.
One man in particular. A man Ross Campbell would never meet.
A man called Ben Hope.
But Ross Campbell had found them, and now the storm was coming.
Eleven days later, the clouds were gone and the sky was bright and blue. But none of the assembly who had gathered at the cemetery in the village of Kinlochardaich to watch the interment of the coffin was smiling.
What an unspeakable tragedy. Ross Campbell had been a much-loved member of the community, even if he had been going through some personal ups and downs in the last year and not always the cheerful and carefree soul he’d once been. It was hard to keep secrets in this close-knit community, and everyone knew that his former long-term girlfriend, Katrina Wilson, was now living with someone else in Inverness. Then again, those who had spoken to Ross in the few days leading up to his untimely death reported that his mood had radically improved all of a sudden. For reasons that remained unclear he’d seemed strangely happy, even jubilant, as though he’d finally broken free of the emotional troubles that had plagued him since his relationship breakup. It seemed so ironic that, just as his life appeared to have turned a corner, he should fall victim to such an awful accident.
It was ‘Patch’ Keddie, the one-eyed birdwatcher who was one of the community’s more colourful fixtures, who’d discovered the body floating face-down among the rushes at the edge of Loch Ardaich while on his solitary wanderings in the countryside with backpack and spotting scope, four days earlier. Shocked and upset by the grisly discovery, Patch had hurried to a spot where he could get phone reception and called for an ambulance, but it was already far too late.
It appeared as if Ross must have been exploring the lochside when he’d slipped and fallen into the water. His surveyor’s van was later found quite a distance away, parked by the fence of the Highland Manor development site. This had sparked much puzzled debate about what Ross was doing down at the water’s edge, a good quarter of a mile or more from the location he’d been surveying. Perhaps he’d wandered over there just to enjoy the magnificent views. In any case, having never learned to swim he had little chance of escaping the freezing cold water. He wasn’t the first victim to have been claimed by the depths of the loch.
Among the mourners at the graveside was Ross’s partner in the firm, thirty-four-year-old Ewan McCulloch. Head bowed and grim-faced, Ewan was visibly shaken to the core by the loss of his business associate and friend. Though they’d only worked together for five years, like most folks in this close-knit community with relatively few incomers they’d known each other for nearly all of their lives.
Other attendees at the funeral included Ross’s stricken parents, who now lived near Inverness. Mrs Campbell had wept bitterly throughout the gruelling church service and was so crippled with grief that she could barely remain upright to watch her only child’s coffin go into the ground. Her husband bore his agony in stoical silence, but the expression in his eyes was ghastly to see.
Katrina Wilson, the ex-girlfriend, was conspicuous by her absence. Nobody was terribly surprised that the untrustworthy little cow had not bothered to show up. Also present were Mairi Anderson, the surveyor’s office administrator; William and Maureen Reid, who ran the Kinlochardaich Arms, the village’s one and only pub; Rab Hunter, the local mechanic who’d known both Ross and Ewan since primary-school days; Patch Keddie, tears streaming from his one eye; and Grace Kirk.
Grace was a couple of years younger than Ewan, had attended the same primary and secondary schools and then left for a time to pursue a police career in the big city. She’d returned to her birthplace a few months ago and was the only female officer in the area. Today she was off duty and out of uniform, hiding her reddened eyes behind dark glasses as she stood in the back of the crowd with her hands clasped and shoulders drooping.
When at last the gut-wrenching ceremony was over, there were solemn handshakes and hugs and commiserations and more tears before the assembly began to disperse. Poor Mrs Campbell had to be virtually carried away to the waiting car. Ewan had been hoping to say a few words of thanks to Grace Kirk, but when he turned away from the grave he saw she’d already gone. He shared a quiet moment with Rab Hunter, who clapped him on the arm and said, ‘Rough times, man. You okay?’ Once you got past the intimidating muscles and the piratical beard and earring, Rab was a big softy at heart. His eyes were full of tears and he kept blinking.
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ Ewan lied.
Rab shook his head and blinked once more. ‘I still cannae get my head aroond it, you know? He was here with us, and now he’s gone.’
‘I can barely believe it either,’ Ewan replied, truthfully this time. He, too, was having a hard time adjusting to the reality of Ross’s death. They parted, and he walked slowly back across the cemetery grounds and past the old grey stone church to where he’d parked his van. It was a little white Peugeot with the company name on the door, identical to the one Ross had been driving. Ewan didn’t have a car of his own. His only personal vehicle was a rundown old camper, currently off the road and somewhat neglected. Maybe one day he’d get around to it.
As Ewan headed homewards he was asking himself the same question he’d been asking for days: What on earth was Ross doing down there at the lochside? He couldn’t have been lost; he knew the area as well as anyone. Ewan didn’t believe he was admiring the scenery, either. Ross couldn’t have given a damn about such things. Had he been drinking? A couple of times in the months since Katrina had left, Ewan had thought he could smell alcohol on Ross’s breath during work hours. Maybe he should have reached out to his friend, offered support, but he’d said nothing at the time. Now he feared that Ross’s emotional state might have been more serious than anyone had supposed.
At the back of Ewan’s mind was the unmentionable thought that wouldn’t go away.
Suicide. Was it possible?
Surely not. Ross wasn’t the type to top himself. But then, every man has his breaking point. What if Ross had simply reached his? What if the apparent uplift in his spirits during his last few days – and yes, Ewan had noticed it too – was really just a desperate man’s last-ditch attempt to disguise the bleak despair that was consuming his heart and soul?
If that was true, then Ewan had truly failed his friend.
‘Oh God, Ross. I’m so sorry.’
When Ewan got home to the small house in which he lived alone, he went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a stiff whisky from a bottle a client had given him the Christmas before last. He wasn’t much of a boozer, but this could be a good time to take up the habit. He sat down heavily in a wooden chair at the table, gulped his drink and then poured himself another. Mixed up with his grief was the bewildering issue of how the business was going to continue with just him as a solo operator. There was already too much work for two partners, especially if the massive undertaking that was the golf course project went ahead. Ross’s sudden absence left a gaping hole that threatened to swallow Ewan up, too.
He had been unable to do any work since receiving the news of the death four days ago. He had no plans to go into the office tomorrow either. Nor the next day, most likely. Let’s just sit here and drink, he thought.