Chapter 8

He was up before the September dawn and on his way once more. It would be a long journey. He drove slowly though the increasingly mountainous scenery, stopping for breakfast at a ‘Little Chef’ and then for lunch at an hotel, where he took an hour’s break before continuing. North of Inverness the roads were empty and the scenery wild and craggy. There were no longer any fences by the road, which itself narrowed as if to discourage casual visitors.

It was late afternoon when he reached the little village he had grown to love over the years. Passing slowly through it to enjoy its simplicity and starkness, he drove on the extra two miles to the hotel, which nestled in a fold of the mountains, facing onto a small loch.

The hotel was small by city standards, having but ten bedrooms; he had used it over the years to escape the pressures of his life when he was making his money and when he was being used more by the MoD. Mobile phones did not work there in the fold of the hills, nor in the village, though it was rumoured that a mast would be erected in the near future. No one knew where he was but George, and that suited him fine.

As he drew up before the front door, Mr and Mrs McLeod came out onto the steps and greeted him, James McLeod with a handshake and broad smile and Bridget with a kiss on both cheeks. James McLeod was a tall gaunt looking man, almost a caricature of a highland Scotsman. Bridget was quite short and pleasantly rounded. Over the years Victor had become close friends with them, a friendship formed especially when he came in winter and was the only guest, when they had invited him to eat and sit with them in their own quarters.

Bridget took a long look at him. “Och, Victor, you look so tired and sad. You’ll want some time to yourself to rest.”

“Yes, Bridget,” he agreed. He felt less oppressed already, and smiled warmly at her. “My sister died recently. It’s a sobering thing when your younger sister dies before you and so young.”

Bridget hugged him and they entered the hotel, James McLeod carrying his bags and Bridget with her arm round his waist.

“There are five guests wi’ us the noo,” Bridget told him. “A young couple on honeymoon – your room is at the other end of the hotel!” She winked at him and laughed at her own implication. “There’s an older couple who go driving every day – they’re a wee bit solemn, and keep themselves to themselves, and there’s a single lass. She looks a little sad, as you do. She’s in her early to mid-thirties, I’d say. You’ll be wanting to go walking while you’re here?”

The lilt in her voice instantly made him feel relaxed and at home. He realised that nowadays this couple was the nearest thing to a family he’d got. He nodded, and was admonished that he must order a packed lunch each day he was going out. He knew from past experience what was in store for him: her packed lunches were varied, generous and always delicious.

He was given his usual room, and after gazing at the craggy mountain from his window, spent an hour unpacking and showering. Then he descended to the bar for a pre-prandial drink, choosing a gin and tonic. He was alone in the bar and sat on a window seat looking out over the valley lit by the setting sun.

The other guests arrived in succession; the honeymooners first who seemed to have silly grins on their faces most of the time as they gazed into each other’s eyes, and nodded to him. Then the older couple, who looked faintly dissatisfied with life, and, Victor thought, with each other. They took up the remaining table in the small bar and they ignored him. Victor hoped that if he ever settled down with anyone again, they would not end up like that. He thought it a waste in such an idyllic spot to have a negative attitude.

Finally in came the lone woman, and, as Bridget had said, she looked a little sad. She was quite tall, though Victor reckoned a little shorter than him. She was slim but shapely, with, he noticed, wonderfully shaped legs showing below her green knee-length skirt. Over the skirt she had on a cream arran sweater which hugged her long neck and her body with its gentle curves.

Everything about her was muted and demure. She ordered her drink and looked round for somewhere to sit. Victor smiled at her and she took that as an invitation and sat at right angles to him at his table.

“Thank you,” she said, as if he’d invited her. “I don’t want to disturb the lovers (though they disturb me at night – I’m next door, but I don’t want to dampen their ardour).”

She spoke quietly so as not to be overheard, smiling at her own comment, her pretty face becoming really beautiful, “and the other couple,” she leant forward and whispered to him, “don’t seem to welcome a third person.”

Victor smiled at her assessment. “They don’t seem to like each other very much either!” he said by way of agreement. “I’m Victor Freeman, call me Victor.” She blushed, and that surprised him.

“Angela Campbell and please call me Angela, or Angie, or anything really,” she replied, that smile crossing her face again as she held out her small cool hand, which he took and held briefly before relinquishing it. He loved her accent, a lowland one he thought, quite different from the highland lilt.