“More wine, Shari?”
They were alone in the dining room. The kitchen was a long way away. Henrik, dismissed for the evening, would be in one of the bars in Auchterarder. He’d told Khan about a barmaid with whom he’d become friendly. So it was just Shari and Khan, and, his presence no more than a distant clang of pots and sizzle of fat, Gordon Sinclair. And Gordon’s girlfriend, who had come to help him in the kitchen. She would leave before dessert was served, while Gordon would linger, clearing up a little and loading his excess ingredients back into the boot of his small sports car. Khan hadn’t met the girlfriend before. She was attractive, if a bit red in the cheeks. Very Scottish: shy, elusive even. Plump, too, or at least well rounded. Khan had the idea that Gordon and she might make a go of a restaurant together. Perhaps she was the knot which tied him to the area. Khan was beginning to form an idea about a restaurant, financed by him and run by Gordon and his girlfriend...
“Yes, please,” said Shari. “This is delicious.”
Trout in almonds. Local trout, naturally, with the cream sauce flavored by a little island malt. The sauce succeeded in not overpowering the delicate fish. The julienne of vegetables remained a little overcooked for Khan’s tastes, but he knew Shari liked them soft almost to the point of mush. She retained the annoying American habit of cutting and spooning everything up with the use of just her fork.
“Delicious,” she said again.
He looked at her and smiled. Maybe he was becoming paranoid. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Look at her — beautiful, fragile. Everything about her was surface. She couldn’t possibly be hiding anything from him. No, he was being stupid. He should forget everything and just enjoy this final night with her.
“Yes, it is delicious, isn’t it?” he said, pouring a little more Meursault. Meursault was a little rich for trout on its own, but the sauce both deserved and could cope with it. He knew Gordon liked to surprise him, but Khan guessed some prime beef would be next (albeit in a sauce of exotic provenance), followed by an Orkney cheese and for dessert, a traditional Scottish crannachan, freshly made. And the beauty was that all the mess in the kitchen and the plates and things in the dining room could be left just as they were. Mrs. MacArthur would come in on Monday afternoon and tidy the lot up.
Before he’d employed her, and again twice since, Khan had had Mrs. MacArthur checked over by a detective agency in Dundee. The agency reckoned that not only was she clean, she was practically unbribable. So Khan didn’t mind that she held a set of keys to the house and to the alarm system. Besides, she never entered the study, which was kept on a separate alarm circuit anyway (to which Khan and the local police held the only keys).
“Delicious,” he said, raising his glass as if in a toast.
It was one of those special pubs where on weekends after closing time the lights are turned off and the regulars drink on in darkness. But not on a Sunday. Some traditions held fast on a Sunday, and the pub closed at ten-thirty sharp. Which suited Henrik really, since he’d offered to drive Nessa home and she had laughingly accepted.
“Though it’s only a five-minute walk,” she’d added.
“Well, we can always drive home the long way.”
She’d said nothing at that. He’d been waiting outside in the rented Ford Scorpio, the stereo playing, engine running. She said good night to the barman, who was locking up, then walked quickly to the edge of the curb. Henrik was already out of the car so he could hold the passenger door open for her. She gave him a funny look.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said.
He got back into the driver’s seat. “Where to?” he asked her.
“Home, of course.”
“Straight home?”
She gave him the look again. “Not necessarily.”
They stopped by a field just off the highway to the south of the town, and stayed there half an hour or so, chatting, kissing. They were as clumsy as teenagers, even with the seats tilted back. Eventually she laughed again and loosed herself from him.
“I’d better get back. My mum’ll be getting worried.”
He nodded. “Okay.” They drove more or less in silence after that, except for her few directions. Until eventually they arrived at the stone bungalow.
“This is it. Thanks for the lift.”
“I’ll be back again next week probably. What about dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“At the hotel if you like.”
“Depends on my shifts really.”
“Maybe I can phone you at the pub?”
She thought this over. “Yes, okay,” she said. “Do that.”
“Good night, Nessa.” He pulled her to him for a final kiss, but she wriggled free and glanced out of the window.
“My mother might be watching. ’Night, Henrik.” And she relented, pecking him on the cheek. He watched her as she opened and closed her gate, gave him a final wave, and climbed the steps to her front door. He thought he saw a curtain twitch in one of the unlit windows. The hall light was on. She closed the door softly behind her. Henrik slipped the gear lever into the drive position and started off. At the end of her road, he ejected Barry Manilow from the tape player and pushed home some heavy metal, turning the volume all the way up. He drove through Auchterarder’s dark, deserted streets for some time with the driver’s window down, grinning to himself. Then he headed home. No doubt he would have to lie in bed and put up with all that squealing and squawking from Khan’s room, all the grunting and puffing. He wondered if it was a put-on, maybe a recording or something. Was it supposed to impress him? Or did neither party realize he had ears?
Mind you, she was a particular beauty, this present catch. And the way she looked at Henrik himself... the way she touched him, as though she wanted to assure herself that his build was a fact and not some fantasy. Yes, maybe when Khan had finished with her, maybe there’d be room for Henrik to move in. He knew where she worked in London. He knew where she lived. He might just happen to be passing. He was pretty sure she’d make even more noise with him than she did with Khan. Yes, pretty damned sure. His grin was even wider as he drove through the gates of the walled and detached house.
He locked the high metal gates behind him. The chef would be long gone. There was no sign of another car. A short gravel driveway led to the front of the house. The place looked to be in darkness. It was only ten to twelve. Maybe they’d finished and were asleep. Maybe he wouldn’t have to resort to vodka to send him into oblivion. He left the car at the top of the drive rather than parking it in the small garage. He stood for a moment, leaning against the cooling body of the car, listening to the silence. A rustling of trees, a bird in the distance, maybe even some frogs. But that was all. And it was so dark. So utterly dark, with the stars shining high in the sky. So different from London, so quiet and isolated. Certainly isolated. They’d talked of keeping guard dogs which could prowl the garden around the house, but then who would feed them and look after them? So instead, there was the alarm system, linked to the local station and to Perth constabulary (the latter for times when the former was closed or unmanned).