When Distilled From Rage

What secrets do the peatlands hide?

An octogenarian distiller is wary of the goings-on in his distillery. The only person he can turn to is innkeeper Aileen Mackinnon.

Amateur sleuth Aileen Mackinnon has a knack for numbers and accounting. After all, she was a revered forensic accountant once. Wanting to wear her sleuthing hat once again, she takes on this simple case, never expecting a foray into familial fights, flying bullets and death.

Detective Inspector Callan Cameron is ordered to stay away from the peatlands. That means he'll never find his best friend's body. But something strange is brewing in Loch Fuar. As summer blazes through town, unease and distrust run rampant.

Has the summer heat awoken a murderer or were they awaiting the return of a Mackinnon?

Callan yearned to rip into something. In the thirty minutes it took him to drive here, his heart had lodged itself in his throat. How many times had she made him worry so? He had to lock her up and chain her to her inn. Not humanitarian thoughts. ‘I told you not to do this.’
Aileen lifted her chin, informing him she was up for an argument. ‘How could I have known something like this would happen?’ She was shaking like a leaf but she’d argue. Stubborn eejit.
‘You drive down here, alone, in the middle of the damn night. What did you think would have happened?’
‘I called the police—’
‘And weren’t you lucky your phone had service? Or I’d be investigating your murder right now. Ever thought of that, Aileen?’
‘I’m fine. See?’ She tugged at his right hand and placed it on her chest. ‘Feel that? I’m alive.’
‘Oh, I don’t need to feel your heartbeat to know that. You ratting out stupidity is enough.’
Aileen narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m going to chalk that up to stress.’ Her soft lips pressed against his. ‘Don’t you dare insult me next time. In case you forgot, you’re not the boss of me.’ Then she ducked under his arm and strutted inside.
How many times would she put herself in trouble and get away like this? It didn’t matter. He’d save her every time. Not that she needed saving…
Callan ran a hand through his hair. This night shift was getting to him. Not only had he seen not the sunlit world in a while, the shift was so silent that even Lieutenant General Warren didn’t call to complain about his neighbour’s cat.
‘Inspector?’ Police constable Kirkpatrick stepped forward out of the shadows.
Callan grunted.
She pulled out her notepad. ‘Mr McCloughan, the younger one, says he heard at least three gunshots coming from the peatlands. His wife confirmed that. The elder Mr McCloughan said he heard nothing, only the commotion in his living room. And then Mr Ricky, he… well, he didn’t say much.’
‘Did Aileen Mackinnon hear three gunshots?’
‘No, she heard two. That’s what she told the operator. Should we check it out?’
He’d have to speak to every person inside. ‘Get your partner to put them in separate rooms. I don’t want them communicating with each other. And tell him to get statements. We’ll go into the peatlands.’
Now that they had a case to solve with witnesses claiming to have heard gunshots at the peatlands, they could go investigate. But the bog was where devils hid, even in summer. Dark mist called it home, like the smoke from a witch’s cauldron.
He almost called off the search until dawn, but if there was something to find, they needed to locate it before the grey clouds shrouding the moon burst into rain.
‘Come on.’ His voice sounded distant to his own ears. But he put one foot in front of the other, heading for the dark and deadly mass of hell. ‘Better get this done with.’
They passed the big house, leaving the distillery on its other side. Behind it was a smaller cottage, with just one floor above and a lamp glowing behind a netted curtain.
Jack and Sarah McCloughan’s house.
Behind it, Callan’s torch highlighted a hedge, bobbing with some summer flowers he couldn’t name. In the night, they didn’t appear as jolly as they were meant to.
‘Here.’ They walked through a small gap in the hedge, and Callan’s wellies sunk into the peat.
Damn rain. The police constable’s wellies made a sucking sound. Something about it grated on Callan’s ears and an image flashed in his mind of a Second World War gas mask.
Sweat trickled down his back. Callan loosened the zip of his well-padded jacket. The smart dashboard in his car told him the temperature was in single digits. Why then was he sweating?
Mist glided over the peat, surrounding them like a cage.
Callan looked back to make sure he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t scared, but he was reassured by the silhouette behind him, draped in neon yellow.
His muscles turned to lead. He drew in a breath that burned his nostrils. Get a grip, Cameron.
‘Sir?’
He almost missed the squeak and gag. Almost walked away.
His torch caught the one spot where the mist wasn’t threatening to overpower his world. A boot.
He skirted his torch around before making his way to it.
His wellies were a blob of mud and his hands frozen bloated digits.
Cold sweat zinged a shiver through him.
Denim-clad legs emerged from the dark, attached to a torso covered with a blue overcoat and—
‘Ah, hell!’