Barbara Erskine - The Ghost Tree

‘April!’ Timothy was standing at the sink, filling the kettle. ‘Look at that! That fat bastard minder of Ruth Dunbar’s has just driven by.’

‘What?’ April had been standing at the cooker. She turned and elbowed her brother out of the way, staring out. ‘Where?’

‘There. He’s stopped to have a good look.’ Timothy drew back slightly.

April stared through the blind as the car came to a halt, the engine running. ‘I’ve seen that guy before,’ she said after a fraction of a second. ‘He looks like someone on the telly. That Scots cook, the one who tells people how to make scones!’

Brother and sister stood side by side, watching. ‘It is,’ she said. ‘It’s Finlay Macdermott.’

‘Don’t be daft, woman. How can you tell from so far away? Besides, what would he be doing here?’ Timothy had never watched Finlay’s programme. ‘He’s gone now.’

‘Get after him!’ April gave Timothy a shove. ‘Quickly! Now! Go after him. Whoever he is, find out where he lives!’

‘But supposing he’s not going home?’ Timothy hadn’t told her of his previous attempt to follow the man.

‘Then stay with him until he does.’

This was one of the few times he was pleased they had an ordinary old vehicle, unlike the one he was following which in daylight stood out a mile. His was dirty, mud-splashed with its number plate barely visible under the layers of crud. Finlay Macdermott. He murmured the name to himself resentfully. A TV chef! April was probably right. He had always been impressed by the way she recognised faces off the telly and she was never wrong. She would dig him in the ribs with her elbow as they walked down the streets and hiss a name at him and point, and he would stare, embarrassed. Luckily she didn’t go and ask people for autographs or selfies, but pointing was almost as bad.

Ahead of him, Finlay was signalling a left turn. The traffic was lighter here and it was growing dark. Timothy let himself drop back slightly and settled down to drive with exaggerated care.

Only five minutes later he was following Finlay down the road past Lauriston Castle, towards Cramond. He was much more cautious now. There was hardly any traffic here. He crawled up to the turning into a leafy lane and followed it slowly down towards the river. No cars here. The houses were tucked in amongst the trees with plenty of space to park. They had high walls and fences. There were several turnings and he approached each one slowly, until he arrived at the end. Ahead was a no-through-road sign.

And then he saw his quarry. Through the trees he caught glimpses of a stone house with a gravelled turning area in front of it and there was Finlay, climbing out of his car. Timothy watched intently for a couple of seconds as the man stooped to retrieve a bag of some sort and then locked the door. With a quiet exclamation of triumph he reversed away from the turning, swung backwards onto the muddy verge, then drove towards the main road. He was looking for somewhere unobtrusive to park.

Finlay had never once looked back.

‘I had a fruitful meeting this afternoon.’ Finlay was still thinking about the plans for the next series. ‘It calls for a bottle of bubbly, methinks!’

He found his ice bucket in a cupboard, brought a bag of ice cubes out of his freezer and emptied it into the container.

‘That sounds wonderful.’ Ruth smiled as she watched. ‘This is so refined! Rick and I didn’t own an ice bucket. If we needed champagne – or to be honest, more likely Prosecco – we stuck the bottle in the freezer for the shortest time possible!’

‘Vandals!’ Finlay placed the bucket on the table. ‘Well, you should be pleased I have standards. I have an image to protect, don’t forget.’ He glanced at her. ‘Which leads me to my news and a favour I need to ask.’

Ruth pulled up one of the high stools at the kitchen island and hauled herself onto it.

‘Name it.’

‘If all goes to plan, I’m going to have to be away for a time, filming in the Hebrides, far sooner than I expected. Would you be willing to stay here to keep an eye on the house? I know you said you would, but I genuinely envisaged being here to protect you from Timothy for a while at least. I quite fancied myself as Sir Lancelot. To leave you alone now seems churlish.’

‘Of course I’d be willing.’ Ruth was surprised at the sense of loss which swept over her at the thought of being without Fin, but she hoped it didn’t show. ‘When are you leaving?’

‘Not sure yet. We agreed a format this afternoon, one which I think will suit the producer, and the money men. Then the hard work will start.’ He gave her an impish grin, full of almost childlike excitement. ‘I’ve been working on this idea for ages. It is going to be such fun! And I want you to have fun too, Ruthie, so while you’re here, especially if you’re in charge, you must have a car to drive and as it happens I have a spare.’ Before he left the kitchen he reached up to the hooks by the door and she found herself holding the keys to the old MX5 he kept tucked away in his garage.

Champagne flutes in hand, they wandered through the dusk and stood on the belvedere, looking down towards the water, listening to the cheerful babble of the weir in the distance.

‘I thought we’d be filming here, in my own kitchen, but the powers that be like the idea of setting it in the Highlands and Islands, perhaps using the kitchens of people who still cook the traditional foods. Old black iron stoves, that sort of thing.’

‘Are there still such people?’ Ruth asked. She was watching reflected lights dancing on the ripples. Somewhere behind them an owl hooted and they both looked round.

Finlay laughed. ‘That’s what my editor said. And the answer is, there are a few, though not for much longer, I fear. TV, the Internet, modern technology, they are all conspiring to wipe out the past. People’s grannies are no longer wearing long black skirts and checked shawls and aprons,’ he sighed theatrically, ‘as they are in my imagination; they have supermarket deliveries or fly to the mainland and go shopping in Inverness or Edinburgh or Paris! But, and this is the important part, the recipes do survive, and my show will do its bit to preserve and disseminate them.’ He shivered. ‘Come away in, it’s cold out here. Let’s eat.’

Having parked his car, Timothy had crept silently along the side of the house. It was almost dark now and he could see lights on at the far end of the building. The sound of the wind in the trees masked any noise he made as he sidled closer, keeping his back to the wall. There were creepers of some kind there; they provided cover as he reached the lit window and peered in. He could see into the kitchen. It was large and expensive-looking and Finlay was standing by the table talking to Ruth. He saw the champagne bottle and narrowed his eyes resentfully, wishing he dared press his ear against the window. He couldn’t hear what they were saying.

When they had moved into the next-door room and opened the French doors he froze, his back pressed into the trellis. If they looked to the side they would see him, but the sudden darkness after the bright light must have blinded them. They stepped outside, laughing, and walked down the grass away from the house without seeing him, leaving the doors open behind them. He hesitated. What was to stop him walking in?

The sound of the owl so close beside him freaked him out. It was eerie, like a horror movie. They heard it too. He saw them both turn. He held his breath. They seemed to be looking straight at him but in the dark they didn’t see him and after a moment they went back to their conversation, talking together softly and laughing as they stared out towards the river. His nerve had gone. He took his chance, sliding back round the corner of the house and out of sight. He knew where they were. He knew that, at least for now the house – his house – in Morningside, was empty.