Buried Secrets
A DCI MacBain Scottish Crime Thriller
Oliver Davies
Contents
Prologue
1. Fifteen years ago
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
12. Three days ago
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
A Message from the Author
Prologue
I slid into the low booth of the Gellions Pub and set my whiskey glass on a scuffed coaster as the music from the nearby session swelled back to life. A fiddler set the pace, ripping into the tune at a speed I thought the other musicians surely wouldn’t be able to match, but each one launched into the notes with the same fervour as the next, and soon, the song was tripping all around the pub, between tapping feet and chattered conversation.
I scanned each of their faces and instruments, searching for one in particular, but I saw only the usual suspects: the old man with the mole on his nose, the guitar player who always seemed so afraid to be there, the trio of fiddlers who came in together, the piper with five different whistles and flutes arrayed around him. I sighed and settled back in the booth, taking a sip of my whiskey. I’d been coming here for five years now, ever since I retired, knowing this had been one of her regular haunts, but she was simply gone, disappeared into the mists. And yet, I knew I would still be here the next week and the week after that until I found something, anything.
I’d listen to the music a while longer and then head out, I decided. After all, there was nothing like a pub session. The musicians existed in their own little world, gathered in a circle with their backs to the rest of the pub as a dozen conversations rose up all around them. Each week saw a different combination of players mingling with the core crew of regulars, and though they had never played together before, it didn’t matter. The tunes still flowed, if not flawlessly then joyously, from their instruments, and I couldn’t help but smile, even as that old familiar loneliness wriggled in my heart.
The session broke for a short rest, and I drained the last sip of my whiskey, sliding across the cracked leather to the edge of the booth. As I stood and reached for the cane leaning in the corner, a man stepped into my path, the concertina player with the mole on his nose. He smiled at me, the craggy wrinkles of his face deepening.
“What’s the crack, son?”
“Just on my way out.”
“You’re here every week. You always leave halfway through.”
“You’re perceptive.”
The old man shrugged. “I’m nosy. Have a drink with me before you go. Pub owes me a free one for all my hard work up there.” When an old folk asked you to have a drink with him, you couldn’t really say no, so I sighed, leaned my cane against the wall, and eased my way back into the booth while the old man signalled to the bartender who no doubt knew his order by heart.
“So what brings you here every week?” the old man asked. His hands were gnarled, his knuckles swollen, and I wondered how he played the tiny keys on the concertina as fast as he did.
“Plenty of people come here every week,” I said.
“And yet none of them have that same look in their eyes. You’re looking for something… someone?” He grinned slyly at me. Old folk were too damn perceptive. I supposed I should really lump myself in with him, too, since I couldn’t have been that much younger than him, and I’d made a living out of being perceptive.
The bartender arrived with two short glasses of whiskey and set them before us without a word. “Fine, yes. I used to know a bodhran player. She played here a lot. I guess I’m hoping I’ll see her here one of these days.”
“Old flame, eh?” He winked.
I sighed, took a sip of my drink. “Something like that.”
“How d'you meet?”
“Long story.”
“My friends love long stories.” He nodded towards the broken circle of musicians behind him. His eyes flicked between my face, the cane, and the smattering of pale scars across my knuckles. “I bet it’s one hell of a tale. I can always tell.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Thanks for the drink, but I should be going.”
“Maybe I know this woman,” the old man said before I was halfway out of the booth. “I know most everyone who’s come through this pub. You tell your story, maybe I can help you out.”
I paused. Looked at him hard. “You’re serious.”
“I’ve been playing here for thirty-odd years. Indulge an old man.”
“You don’t get to play that card when we’re almost the same age. Fine. If,” I held up a finger, “you buy me another drink.”
A grin cracked the old man’s face, deepening the wrinkles all around his eyes and mouth. “Deal.”
So I picked up my drink in one hand and my cane in the other and followed him across the bar to the array of benches and chairs squeezed together haphazardly in a corner. My knee ached dully as I threaded my way through the jumbled of instrument cases across the floor, and the old man pushed me towards an empty stool.
“My new friend here has a harrowing tale of romance and intrigue for us.” His eyebrows shot into the stratosphere as he spoke, gesturing my way. “He-- What’s your name?”
“Callum MacBain.”
The young guitar player choked on his beer. “Callum MacBain? Like DCI Callum MacBain?”
“Yes,” I said, squinting at him. “Do I know you?”
He set his glass down and wiped beer off his face. “No, sorry. My parents were kind of obsessed with your cases when I was young. They followed your investigations almost religiously.”
That was just a little creepy, but it was also nice to know that someone appreciated my work back in the
