But the road was slippery, he was travelling too fast and he felt his wheels lose traction. He cried out in panic as the van went into a skid. The verge flashed towards him. His front wheels hit the grass with a thud and the nose of the van ploughed through several feet of dirt before smashing hard into the drystone wall that divided the verge from the neighbouring field.
The force of the impact threw Ewan violently forwards in his seat and the exploding airbag punched him in the face. Dazed, he saw stars. He was only dimly aware that his engine had stalled and the front end of the van was a buckled mess embedded in the remains of the drystone wall. Through a mist of confusion, he sensed someone approaching; then his driver’s door being wrenched open and the cold air flooding into the cab. The shape of a large man leaned down towards him and reached inside the car. Ewan heard the clunking sound of his seatbelt clasp being released. Next thing he knew, two strong hands grabbed him by the collar and he felt himself being hauled roughly out of his seat.
Ewan did what he could to resist but he was disorientated and still in shock from the accident, and the man was much bigger and stronger than he was. Ewan felt himself being bodily dragged along the wet grass, then dumped hard on the ground at the roadside. He heard car doors opening and shutting, and became aware of more men gathering around where he lay gasping and blinking.
All he could do was gape helplessly up at them. Four unsmiling faces stared back. The men were each wearing bulky quilted jackets, black woollen beanie hats and black gloves. Two of them, including the man who had dragged him from the car, were total strangers.
The other two, he realised with a jolt of paralysing terror, were not.
One of the men he recognised grinned down at him and said, ‘Hello, Ewan.’
It was later that morning that a taxicab driven by a local man called Duncan Laurie picked up a traveller at the tiny Spean Bridge railway station on the West Highland Line. The passenger was an older man, lean and grizzled with a salt-and-pepper beard and white hair buzzed so short it looked like a military crew cut. He gave Duncan an address in the village of Kinlochardaich, a few miles away, loaded his own single travel bag in the boot of the car and sat in the back.
Duncan had been driving cabs for a long time and he was pretty good at sizing people up. His passenger had the look of a tough customer. Not a particularly tall or large man, but he was one of those work-hardened gruff little guys who seemed to be made out of wood and leather. Not someone to be messed with, Duncan thought. But there was nothing menacing or threatening about him. He had an air of stillness and calm. A man who meant business. Though he was obviously a Scotsman – from Glasgow or thereabouts, judging by his accent – he looked more as though he’d spent the last several years in a warmer climate, like Greece or Spain. At first glance he could even have passed for a native of the Mediterranean region, except for those flinty, hooded grey eyes, the colour of a battleship. Eyes that seemed to watch everything, drinking in his surroundings and missing no detail as they set off north-westwards along the scenic glen road towards Kinlochardaich.
‘You’re no from around here, I’m guessing,’ Duncan said by way of initiating conversation.
The flinty eyes connected with his in the rear-view mirror and the passenger replied with a monosyllabic ‘Nope.’
‘Here to visit, then, aye? Got friends and family in Kinlochardaich?’
The passenger gave only a slight nod in response. Not much given to small talk, seemingly. Maybe he was tired after his long journey from wherever. Or maybe he just wasn’t keen on questions. But it would take more than a bit of dourness to quell Duncan’s sociable nature.
‘Name’s Duncan. Duncan Laurie. I live over in Gairlochy.’
‘McCulloch,’ the passenger said quietly. ‘Boonzie McCulloch.’
‘Good to meet ye, Boonzie. If you need a taxi ride during your stay, give me a call, okay?’ Duncan plucked out a business card and handed it back over his shoulder.
‘I’ll do that,’ Boonzie replied, taking the card. Then he said no more until they reached the quiet streets of tiny Kinlochardaich.
The taxi pulled up at the address. Boonzie retrieved his bag from the boot, paid his fare and thanked Duncan for the ride. The taxi sped off. Boonzie glanced around at the empty village street, which looked as if it hadn’t changed much in the last century or so, and reminded him of the Scotland of his youth. Misty mountains were visible in the background and the air was tinged with the scent of woodsmoke from chimneys.
He checked the address his nephew had given him over the phone. This was it: 8 Wallace Street. A modest grey stone terraced house, a far cry from the rambling old farmstead Boonzie and his wife Mirella called home, but not a bad wee place. He was happy that his nephew had made something of himself. The boy had been dealt a rough hand, what with losing his mother at such a young age and the death of his father not many years afterwards. There wasn’t a day that Boonzie didn’t think about his late brother Gordon. Though he’d never spoken a word of it to a living soul. Boonzie was like that.
He rang the front doorbell and waited, smiling to himself in anticipation of meeting Ewan again. It had been a while.
No reply. Boonzie tried again a couple of times, then noticed that the parking space in front of the house was vacant and wondered if Ewan had gone off somewhere. Which was a little vexing. Boonzie had called from a payphone at Inverness airport earlier, and left a message to tell Ewan when he’d be arriving. If Boonzie had been carrying a mobile he’d have tried calling him on it again now, but he detested the damn things and prided himself on being the last man on the planet who didn’t own one.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a sash window squeaking open overhead. He stepped back from the door and looked up to see a thickset woman with curlers in her hair, leaning out from the neighbouring house’s upstairs.
‘Excuse me, but are you lookin’ for Ewan McCulloch?’ she called down to him, and Boonzie nodded and said he was. ‘I’m Ewan’s uncle,’ he explained.
She said, ‘The police were here before.’ She pronounced it the Scottish way, ‘polis’.
Boonzie frowned. ‘The police?’ What was this about? Hadn’t he said to Ewan not to call them until he got here?
What the woman said next shocked him. ‘Aye. Ewan’s been hurt. He’s been taken to the hospital in Fort William.’
‘Hurt? What happened?’
The neighbour shook her head. ‘Dunno, but it sounds bad. Happened this mornin’. You should get over there quick.’
Boonzie was reeling, but outwardly showed no flicker. He retrieved the business card from his pocket and asked, ‘Mind if I use your phone?’
An hour later, Boonzie jumped out of Duncan Laurie’s taxicab for the second time that day, ran up the steps of Fort William’s Belford Hospital, slammed through the entrance into the reception area and hurried to the front desk. ‘Ewan McCulloch was brought in here today. Where is he?’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘I’m his uncle, Archibald McCulloch.’ Boonzie normally disliked giving his real name, but at this moment Ewan’s wellbeing
