‘Gosh!’
The pelting rain slowed her progress, a white curtain as angry as the wind. At least it offered a veil to hide behind. No way could anyone spy her out now.
Her eyes strained to see the sign that would lead her to Loch Fuar’s most prized distillery and export: McCloughan’s.
McCloughan’s was the first tumbler of whisky Aileen’s gran, Siobhan, had toasted her with. And typical of her gran, she’d tried to trick Aileen into drinking before she turned eighteen. Aileen learned to be firm with Gran early on, especially regarding whisky.
Her forehead relaxed at the thought of the ninety-year-old Siobhan. Nothing slowed that woman down.
And this weather won’t slow Aileen either.
She hit another ditch and hoped her car wouldn’t crash into a rock and leave her stranded out here, especially given the spotty mobile connection. Again, the farther away from the centre of town you went…
Through the downpour, she spotted a dark sign with gold lettering. Under it shimmered an image of a waterfall cascading into a tumbler.
She’d found them.
Despite the deserted road, Aileen indicated left and braced for the ride on an unpaved track. McCloughan’s were known for their ‘Highland experience’; tyre tracks etched in wet mud were difficult to drive along but showcased the rugged landscape.
She gritted her teeth, used all her might to steer, and trained her eyes on the road. Her headlights caught fronds shivering in the wind on either side.
Crash.
‘Ouch!’
She’d hit a deep ditch. The engine let out a groan. If her petrol tank burst…
She pulled into an empty car park. Using her sedan for this trip was not incognito, but it would have been foolish to walk here or hitch a ride.
When her boyfriend found out her plans for tonight, they’d had another one of their rows, leading to physical blows. Or rather, she tried punching, and he deflected with a kiss. Then the night had turned sweet.
Aileen huffed out the remnants of irritation at being in love with a detective inspector, aka a walking bodyguard-cum-safety alarm system.
She knew how to take care of herself, thank you very much. But he always worried she’d land herself in trouble, often listing out instances when she’d been in jeopardy.
Last night, she assured Callan she was in no danger from the McCloughan Distillery’s patriarch, Mr Pluto McCloughan – the man walked with a stick.
His retirement was a loss to Loch Fuar. The heir, Jack McCloughan, had fallen far from the tree, so said the rumours according to trusted gossipmonger-in-chief, Isla McIntyre.
Aileen stepped out of her car and straight into a puddle. ‘Hell!’
The night was turning from irritating to worse. She glared at her boots. Who’d clean the crusty mud from them later? She didn’t have time for this. But why was she here, then?
She breathed through her nerves. A girl needed downtime, even if it included a bit of sleuthing. Especially if it included sleuthing.
She shut the car door behind her and a chill flashed through the air.
Time for the fun to begin.
Aileen waited for her eyes to adjust so she could peek through the trees and see. There: the outline of a stone building, just one storey tall and topped with a typical peaked roof. Next to it stood another building with a chimney, exposed bricks, and a frieze carved above the door.
Pluto McCloughan’s house. That’s what Ethan, the pub owner, had told her.
Aileen splashed her way towards it, careful to not switch on the torch. She always carried it, a hangover after solving a few murder cases on her own.
The wind tugged at her raincoat’s cap and spiked goosebumps on her skin.
If her feet slipped and her arse landed in the mud… she shook her head. Wet clothes, muddy shoes and soggy underwear were a recipe for disaster.
Her face dripped, and eyes stung from the moisturiser that had dissolved in the rainwater. Aileen put one foot in front of the other.
The house grew larger as she neared. A golden glow emanated from the ground floor rooms. Pluto McCloughan was waiting for her.
She veered around a puddle and stepped under the awning. At last.
Aileen took a minute, surveying the silent building next door, the distillery. The patter of rain prevented her from hearing the waterfall, the natural resource distilleries in the Highlands used to fashion their whisky.
She flicked a glance at the car park behind her, shrouded in blackness. The pitch-grey sky swallowed the views McCloughan’s brochure waxed poetic about. Where were the endless mountains, the stone bridges and tartan-striped peatlands?
So much for long summer days…
Aileen faced a door which sported roughened, exposed wood to match the outer brick structure. She banged the barrel-shaped door knocker.
