Page 12 of Highland Games
Zoe spentthe morning between Morag’s and the library, making more plans for the cabin and juggling her budget. She may not have been paying rent any more, but the cabin was going to be a financial black hole if she wasn’t careful. Even though she hadn’t planned on doing any accountancy, Fiona was a mobile hairdresser and insisted Zoe do her books. The money wasn’t going to stretch far and Zoe had a sinking feeling that sooner or later she’d have to get in her car every day and go to Inverness or further afield to find work.
It was drizzling by the time she drove up the track, making it slippery under the wheels of the truck. Thank god she had traded in Siena. The rain came down heavier as she ran for the cabin and she saw with dismay how churned up the ground was from the cattle earlier.
The Rayburn was running low so she fed it more logs. If she was going to keep this going through the winter, she couldn’t leave it unattended during the day. She couldn’t work in an office an hour’s drive away. God, it just ate wood.
She felt a splash on her head. Looking up dubiously, she saw the roof was not as secure as she had led everyone to believe.
‘Bollocks!’ She dragged out some pots and pans, placing them below the drips and potential weak spots. The roof had to get fixed before winter set in. Jamie was coming around later with the sheep’s wool for insulation. She would ask his advice.
Rory sat in the truck,drumming his fingers impatiently on his rock-solid thighs in time with the rain on the roof. He was parked next to a field that contained thirty Highland cattle. Cattle that should still be at the cabin. How had they got back? And shut the gate behind them? Zoe couldn’t have brought them here on her own. She didn’t even know where they had come from. He brought out his phone to ring the tenant farmer, then paused and looked at Bandit.
‘But what if she did bring them back?’
Bandit rested his head on his front paws. Rory banged his head back against the seat in frustration, then drove back into Kinloch. He needed to load the truck with wood for the interloper, then go to Inverness for a conversation with the estate’s bank manager and its solicitors. But before all that, he needed to confront the most frightening part of his new job: paperwork.
5
The Kinloch estate office was ancient, and a mess. Big leather-bound volumes filled shelves that reached to the ceiling. The dust was thick, the paint was peeling, and cobwebs hung in every corner. It was a room where paper came to breed and die. Rory sat slumped behind a desk obscured by piles of the stuff, raked his hands through his hair and brooded.
On the table in front of him were letters from the bank. He had put off opening them until a call had come through that morning from the bank manager reminding him of his obligations.Obligations. His least favourite word. He’d spent most of his adult life running away from his particular ones, but now his father was dead and he had no choice but to face up to them. He knew he should have offloaded these tasks to someone far more competent than himself, but there just wasn’t enough money to pay anyone. So, he ignored letters and emails, put off opening them, stupidly hoping they might disappear, or a solution might magically present itself.
Give him a tree to cut down, a fence to fix, a tangible and practical problem to solve and he was the man for the job. Give him a balance sheet and he’d rather take a bullet. So now his problem chickens were coming home to roost, and it wasn’t just him who would suffer, it would be his mother. After the death of his father, she relied on him completely. If he couldn’t make the estate profitable then he would lose his job. What would happen to her then? He thought of them both resorting to stacking shelves in a supermarket and his head went from hurting to pounding.
By the timehe arrived at the offices of the Kinloch estate lawyers, his brain was bursting out of his skull. Despite the sale of the estate’s townhouse in the capital, the debt continued to mount and the castle continued to deteriorate. The bank manager hadn’t sugar coated the situation. She’d told him there were limits to how big overdrafts could be and how long loans could last without repayment. Apparently, it was no longer acceptable that the ones for the Kinloch estate and the MacGinley family had begun in the time of Robert the Bruce and were due to be paid off when humans colonised Mars.
He now sat in a quiet room of MacLennan and McCarthy, the estate’s solicitors, his socks sinking into the thick, pale blue carpet, his battered waxed jacket hung outside to dry. The staff had insisted he didn’t need to remove his boots, but Rory could insist harder. His life was enough of a muddy, dishevelled mess without inflicting it on others.
He sat across from the latest McCarthy; acres of leather inlaid desk between them. The desk was polished, with a fountain pen stand, blotter pad and a brass desk calendar. In one corner was a crystal decanter of whisky and a couple of glasses. The old man’s fingers had instinctively drifted towards it when they both sat down, but after an imperceptible shake of Rory’s head, he called his assistant to bring them both a glass of Highland spring water instead.
Alastair McCarthy was of indeterminate age but clearly very old. His body had got to a point it was happy with, then stayed there, slowly desiccating. He was extremely thin, with sunken eyes, a shining skull, and a veneer of papery skin shrink-wrapped over his emaciated frame. He presented a visible anatomy lesson, and a study in stillness. It was only his habit of preceding every proclamation with a vigorous throat clearing exercise that reminded Rory he was, against all the odds, still alive.
Following enquiries after his mother, he placed a sheaf of papers in a brown folder down in front of him.
‘Ahem. The papers you enquired about, containing the legal arrangement for the croft. The lease did not expire with the death of William Laing, so he was free to pass it on to whomever he chose. Here’s the estate’s copy you can take with you so you can see for yourself.’
Rory leafed through the papers, scowling at the name: Stuart MacGinley, Earl of Kinloch.
‘The lease also includes access to the main road via the track, and it is recorded as having a dwelling, so the lady is, ahem, within her rights to reside there.’
‘But he never paid the estate any money for it!’
The corners of Alastair’s eyes softened. ‘Ahem. He gave a lifetime of service essentially for free. Regardless, even if the land was still currently part of the estate, the sale of a new lease would make little difference to the present situation. Unless circumstances change, then the only course of action is to—’
‘No.’
‘Or fully embrace Colquhoun Asset Management’s plans?’
‘No,’ replied Rory more forcefully.
‘Have you spoken recently with the bank?’
‘Just now.’
Alastair’s shoulders sagged a little and he leaned against the back of his chair. ‘Ahem. So you appreciate where we find ourselves…’
Rory’s head sunk. This was all on him. The estate would go under and he had no one to blame but himself.
Walking backthrough the centre of Inverness, Bandit at his side, Rory fixated on the cabin. If only he was living there instead of this woman, he would have the headspace he needed to find the solution to an impossible problem. Alastair McCarthy’s inference they should sell off more assets was the sign of ultimate failure. After the sale of the townhouse, the castle was about the only thing left of value, but still nobody wanted it. And as for the plans Colquhoun Asset Management had put forward? To develop the castle into a conference centre? He wanted that to be the last resort before repossession. His train of thought was interrupted by Bandit who had stopped outside a shop and was barking excitedly at the window.
