Dead in the Water Read Online Free PDF Page B

of a bottle, no doubt about that, and she was wearing those jeans they all wore nowadays, showing up her middle-aged bulges. She’d have been better wearing a decent skirt, at her age.
    ‘Hi, Mrs Grant,’ the girl behind the counter greeted her, and the older woman being served turned. ‘Hello, Jean! Wee bit chilly today, isn’t it?’
    Jean inclined her head. ‘Morning,’ she said. She never indulged in idle conversation, but she wasn’t above listening to it, and the girl’s voice was excited as she went on with what she’d been saying.
    ‘They’ll be filming round here four days next week. And Marcus Lindsay came in himself, buying bread.’
    ‘Marcus Lindsay!’ the blonde woman chipped in. ‘Goodness – haven’t seen him for ages. Does he come often?’
    ‘Don’t think so,’ the girl said. ‘I’ve seen him a couple of times before, but I think he stays in Glasgow. He’s at the big house for a week anyway, he said. And there’s some film star staying with him, someone said – she’s old, can’t remember her name . . .’
    ‘Sylvia Lascelles,’ the older woman supplied. ‘I heard that along the street. I mind her fine. She was in For Ever – my hankie was soaking wet when I came out after. Haven’t heard of her for years.’
    The blonde woman had seen the film too. They embarked on an enjoyable gossip.
    Jean Grant was frowning, a light of calculation in her eyes. She listened a little longer, but as the conversation centred on the film star, she moved forward. ‘ If you wouldn’t mind. Some of us have work to do.’
    The assistant flushed. ‘Sorry, Mrs Grant. What was it you were wanting?’
     
    Her bread and pies added to her basket, Jean Grant returned to the elderly Vauxhall parked further down the street and drove off, through Port Logan and Kirkmaiden and along the single-track road signposted to the Mull of Galloway, then over a cattle grid. A little further on, she turned up the track to Balnakenny.
    She looked around for her son, but there was no sign of him in his tractor or out among the cattle grazing on either side of the track. He wasn’t around the yard either; she looked at her watch, pursing her lips as she got out of the car, and went into the farmhouse.
    Stuart Grant was lounging in a wooden chair by the kitchen fire. He’d been reading a magazine; she could see it inadequately hidden behind a cushion.
    ‘What are you doing, in at this time?’ Jean challenged him.
    ‘Just taking my break,’ he said, a defensive whine in his voice. ‘Took it later than usual.’
    ‘Well, you’ve no time to waste, sitting here. I’ve told you the dykes that are needing attention, and you’ve never got round to it.’
    ‘All right, all right.’ Stuart got to his feet and went towards the door.
    ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘That Marcus Lazansky – Lindsay, he’s calling himself now – he’s back here. Staying for a week.’
    Stuart stopped. Without turning round, he said, ‘Is he?’
    ‘Yes. What are you going to do?’
    ‘Who said I was going to do anything?’
    His mother glared at him. ‘Your sister—’ she began.
    ‘Don’t start!’ His voice was ragged with anger. He gestured towards a table where a large photograph of a girl with long blonde hair stood, flanked by two candles that were never lit. ‘You didn’t help, at the time.’
    ‘How dare you!’ Jean’s eyes flashed fury. ‘Your sister’s death ruined my life, and I’ve never forgotten who was to blame, even if you have.’
    He looked as if he might reply, then shrugged. ‘We know what we know,’ he said. ‘And I heard what you said.’
    He went out, leaving her glaring after him. Then she got out a duster and a can of pine-scented Pledge to polish the table. She picked up the picture, rubbed the glass, and stood looking at it for a long time.
     
    Jaki Johnston was in a bad mood by the time she reached Tulach House. She’d got up at an hour she’d barely known existed on a Saturday morning,