The Pretender’s Gold. Scott Mariani
and pretty much comatose. Their doctor was waiting for them back in Inverness, where they would be returning that afternoon to pick up the pieces of their life. Ewan offered some more lame condolences and said he’d come right over and collect the van. Not a task he particularly relished, but at least it’d get him out of the house for a while and give him something to do.
Ross had held a mortgage on a small ground-floor flat in a handsome double-fronted stone house a couple of doors down from the Kinlochardaich Arms, on the other side of the village. It was within easy walking distance of Ewan’s place, and he set off on foot. The wind was cold; he wondered if snow might be on the way.
Seeing the white Peugeot Bipper van parked outside Ross’s flat brought a lump to Ewan’s throat. Mr Campbell appeared at the window, and came outside a moment later to greet him with the same grim-faced demeanour as before. They shook hands and spoke only briefly. Ross’s father handed over the set of vehicle keys that had been among his son’s possessions recovered by the police. Then Ewan got into the van and drove off, feeling miserable.
With nothing better to do when he got home, he set about cleaning out the inside of the van. Ross had not been the tidiest of people. His flat had always been a tip and he kept the company vehicle like a pigsty: crumpled fish and chips packaging tossed negligently into the back, crushed empty Coke cans rolling about the floor, crisp packets stuffed into the glove compartment, dirt everywhere. Tons of dirt. It looked as though his friend had been wallowing about in a bloody farmyard. Tutting and shaking his head, Ewan chucked the rubbish into a bin bag, then went and fetched the vacuum cleaner and started dejectedly hoovering out all the bits of dried mud. Honestly, Ross. Sorry to say it, but what a slob you were.
Ewan was cleaning beneath the driver’s seat when he came across the strange object that had somehow made its way under there. He picked it up and stared at it.
‘Holy shit.’
The gold coin seemed to glitter between his fingers with a life of its own. Ewan had never seen anything like it before. He turned off the hoover and sat at the wheel of the van to examine the coin more closely. Its markings were ingrained with dirt, as though it had not long ago been dug up out of the ground. But they were still clear enough for Ewan to make out. One face bore the head of a regal-looking individual with long, flowing locks of hair and a noble, patrician profile. Inscribed around the circumference were the letters LVD.XV.D.G.FR. ET NAV. REX. The reverse of the coin was inscribed with a crown and more writing: CHRS.REGN.VINC.IMPER.1746.
None of which meant anything to Ewan except the obvious 1746 date mark. And the fact that it was most definitely not a piece of brass. But now the question was burning inside him: what on earth had Ross been doing with it?
On an impulse, he got out of the van, knelt down by the open driver’s door and reached an arm under the seat to see what else might be under there. To his even greater amazement his fingers closed on a second coin. As with the first, he stared at it for a long moment. It was virtually identical except for the date mark, which was a year older.
Where could Ross have possibly found these? Surely, not even an inveterate slob would leave valuable gold coins lying around for any length of time in their car. They couldn’t have been here long. Perhaps this explained where all the mud had come from. Was this what Ross had been doing on his trips into the countryside, rooting up old coins?
Scotland as a whole was incredibly rich with history, but nowhere more so than this region. Myths and legends of buried treasure had for years drawn legions of dreamers and speculators to the Loch Ardaich pine forest and surrounding glens looking to get rich in other ways, armed with metal detectors and shovels and divining rods and God knew what else. Nobody had ever found anything of significant historic interest, barring a few rusty old arrowheads and, on one exciting occasion, a medieval Scottish claymore sword so decomposed that it looked like a rotted stick. Gradually, the treasure hunters had dwindled to a bare few – while the sceptics and naysayers became both more numerous and vociferous. ‘There’s nothing there’ had become the received wisdom.
But it looked as though Ross might well have proved the naysayers wrong. Why hadn’t he shared the news of his discovery?
Reflecting, Ewan felt a pang of betrayal. He’d always considered Ross his friend. Friends didn’t hide things from one another. Ross’s deliberate act of secrecy smacked of mistrust and deviousness. What did he think, that Ewan would try to steal his precious coins? Claim his share, because they’d been discovered on company time?
But hold on a minute, Ewan thought. This wasn’t making any sense. What were the coins doing lying about in the van in the first place? Who wouldn’t have brought them inside and made sure they were safely hidden away? Which meant, or implied, that the reason Ross had left these two particular coins in the van was that he didn’t know they were there.
Which in turn also meant, or implied, that the reason he didn’t know they were there was that he’d accidentally dropped them, in his typically clumsy and negligent style, while his attention was taken up with something else. And what else could possibly have distracted him in such a way?
One logical answer sprang to mind.
More coins.
Ewan could picture it perfectly. Ross, delirious with greedy joy at his find, scrambling home in such a rush that the gold was literally slipping through his fingers. How many more coins could he have found? Enough, obviously, that he hadn’t bothered even counting them until he got back to his flat, or else he’d surely have missed these two. Dozens of them? Scores? Who could say?
But then Ewan had another thought that made his blood turn cold.
If these two coins represented only a minor fraction of Ross’s haul, as logic suggested, then where were the rest? What if Ross had had them on his person, keeping them close, when the alleged killers struck? What if the killers had taken them?
And worst of all, what if the gold was the reason they’d killed him?
Suddenly this whole dreadful thing made some kind of sense.
Ewan pocketed the pair of coins and pulled out his phone to call his uncle. No reply, and no messaging service on which to leave a voicemail. Ewan only had the Italian landline number to reach him on. He wasn’t even sure if Boonzie possessed a mobile. Knowing him, perhaps not. There was an email address for him and Mirella, but Ewan had given up sending messages to it long ago.
Ewan couldn’t stand passively waiting any longer. He had to do something. People must be told about this. Now there was not only a potential witness to the crime, but a likely and compelling motive to boot.
Kinlochardaich had a church, a pub, a garage, a small convenience store and its own tiny primary school with about twenty-five pupils, but it had no police station – something many residents regarded as a blessing. The only cop hereabouts was Grace Kirk, and so Ewan clambered into his van and drove hurriedly over to the rented cottage in which she lived alone, just beyond the outskirts of the village. He was a little nervous about going to see her. They hadn’t been alone together since they were both sixteen years old and sort of, kind of, on-and-off going out. Not that it had been much of a relationship. A bit of hand-holding, a few awkward kisses and some sweet talk, nothing more serious. But Ewan had secretly worshipped and pined for Grace for years afterwards, and in fact was willing to admit to himself that he’d never quite got over her. The news of her return to Kinlochardaich a few months back had got him rather worked up, though he’d never had the courage to speak to her, let alone ask her out again. The local gossip mill had it that she and Lewis Gourlay, a regular of the drinking fraternity at the Arms, were an item. Ewan stubbornly refused to believe the rumour.
In the event, he needn’t have felt nervous because Grace wasn’t at home. Ewan’s remaining option was now to drive the thirty miles south-east to Fort William, the nearest town of any real size, and talk to the police there. The journey