Alistair Grant returned to Killilan House, and shut himself in the library.  What was wrong with him?  He’d always had success with the ladies—it took little effort.  And yet that little effort hadn’t made Anna MacDonald accept his offer of a date.  No, nothing was wrong with him.  It was her.  She’d clearly become a man-hater.  Still, he had to do something about her… something…

He opened the small rosewood drinks cabinet, and poured himself a large measure of Scotch.  He stared into the glass, and a resentful expression settled on his aristocratic features.  Until a month ago, his life on the Riviera had been perfect.  A yacht, admittedly leased for the season, an Aston Martin, fabulous parties, attended by A-list celebrities.  But it had all come to an end the day his father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

At least the old boy was safely ensconced in a nursing home where he couldn’t do any more damage.  But the cost, added to the estate’s huge overdraft, was crippling.  And Sophie, his sister, and her Hong Kong banker husband were of no help.  They’d refused to assist with the fees, saying that all their spare cash was tied up in stocks and bonds and other investments, and would take some time to convert to cash.  It was a poor excuse.  He knew they were lying, and had told them so, and the ensuing argument was bitter and futile.  Sophie said she’d never speak to him again.  He had every reason to believe her.
A grim letter from the family accountant had arrived that morning.  Things were worse than he imagined.  He tossed back the whisky, then picked up the decanter, and carried it back to his desk.  While drinking didn’t solve his problem, it sure helped, although having the servants see him drinking this early in the day would have given his mother apoplexy, Alistair thought as he refilled his glass.

Ordinarily, he would have found comfort in the library, but today its sombre decoration only added to his depression.  The walls, apart from one, which held portraits of his father and grandfather, were covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves.  Chinese rugs covered the polished wood floor.  He paced the room, stopping in front of the Louis XV mantel clock.  He wondered whether it was an original or a copy.  He turned it round to examine it when someone knocked on the door.  A wiry, bald headed man opened it and glared at him wordlessly.

“MacKinnon.  Come in.  I’ve been expecting you.”  Alistair sank into his overstuffed leather desk chair.  McKenzie MacKinnon had been recommended by a friend of a friend in France as being having the skills necessary to do the job, but God alone knew which gutter he’d climbed out of, or where he’d found his clothes.

MacKinnon kicked the door closed with the heel of his right boot.

“For God’s sake!” shouted Alistair. “Be careful.  You nearly sent a Minton vase toppling.  It’s worth all of three grand.”

Mac pulled off his deerstalker and scratched his bald head.

“Aye?  But then I suppose that’s nothing compared with the value of this place as a whole, and once you’ve signed yon piece of paper, you’ll be able to afford even more fancy jugs.”

“That rather depends on you, doesn’t it?”  Alistair replied.  “So far, we haven’t discussed the finer details of our… our little business transaction, which brings me nicely to the subject.  Take a seat.”

Mac dropped heavily into the Chippendale chair.  The delicate chair legs creaked rebelliously under his weight.  He rested his shotgun on his knees, and then folded his arms across his chest.  His gaze settled on the young Laird’s face.

“I have four weeks in which to sign the contract.  If I don’t meet the deadline, the deal is off, and along with it our arrangement.”

Mac’s thin lips twisted into thin line.  “That’s what you think, your Lairdship.  We have an agreement and it says nothing about payment being conditional on completion.”

“Don’t try veiled threats with me, MacKinnon.  I know enough about your activities to put you inside for a very long time.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.  Even so, you must be desperate to hire the likes of me.”

Alistair took out his handkerchief and dabbed his palms.  He felt dirty having to deal with this disreputable man, but time was running out and he had no other option.  “I was told you could get the job done quickly and without any fuss.”

“Aye, so you said on the phone.  The taxes on this place must be crippling.  Even so, it must be really tough owning all this,” MacKinnon said, waving his arm about the room.  “But don’t worry, your Lairdship.  There’s plenty of time for me to deal with your little problem.”

“You’ve made little progress to date.  You told me that you’d have everything sorted within no time at all.  What happened?”

“It will be sorted, so long as you stop interfering.  You should have stayed in the south of France.”

“I couldn’t, you know that.  An estate of this size doesn’t run itself, you know.”

“That’s as may be.  But these matters take time your Lairdship, if they are to be handled properly.  You’ve only just appointed me as factor, so I can’t start shouting orders or your tenants will get suspicious.  That McInnes woman, for one.  She sees everything.  It’s positively uncanny.  Anyway, you don’t want the village gossip spreading rumours.”
“Good Lord, man!  The last thing I need.”

“In that case let me do the job my way.”

“All right.  But be careful.  And keep me informed.  I can’t afford to miss the closing date.”

“You’re not the only one with a vested interest in this project, remember.  You’ve promised me a hefty bonus for a successful outcome.”

“Just as long as we’re clear on what is at stake.  You can go now.”

“That’s it?  No affairs of the estate to discuss?  As your factor, I’m supposed to be seen with you—quite often.”

“How silly of me to forget,” Alistair sighed.  “You’d better tell the lads to get the silage cut.  You’ll also need to book shearers for the sheep.  The shooting season gets underway in a few months.  I assume the pheasant pens are well stocked?  And you will need to hire some beaters.  I can’t afford to turn clients away.”

“Aye, I’ll make sure it’s all taken care of.  Now, if there’s nothing else, your Lairdship, I’ve a few things to attend to.”  He picked up his gun.

MacKinnon rose, scraping the antique chair against the polished wood floor.  Alistair winced.  “I’m counting on you, MacKinnon, for an early resolution to this problem.  Don’t let me down.”

MacKinnon snorted.  “We’ll, see.  It all depends on how I feel, your Lairdship.  It all depends on how I feel.”  He scuttled out and slammed the door after himself. 

Alistair jumped and looked back to see if the vase was all right.  It was, but his stomach wasn’t.

He swivelled his chair and stared out at the ornamental garden.  How had he got into this mess?  And, worse still, how could he control that vicious Glasgow rat?  He slammed his fist on the desk.  His glass crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces, spilling its contents onto the Chinese rug.  God damn it!  Did everything he touched have to go wrong?

He picked up the largest shards of glass and dropped them into the wooden wastebasket, narrowly escaping cutting himself.  He looked down at the ever-spreading pool of whisky.  Oh, the hell with it.  Let Mrs McTavish mop it up.  Poor or not, no proper Laird did his own cleaning.

There had to be another way to resolve his problems, but he couldn’t see any course of action other than the one he was already taking.  He looked at the papers lying on the desk in the vague hope they held the answers, but what he saw there only made him more depressed.  He clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the painting of his father on the opposite wall.

“You rotten old bastard.  It’s your fault.  If you hadn’t… if you’d only… oh, I hope you die and go to Hell!”  After a moment’s contemplation, he snatched up the phone and dialled.